You Are My Heart
by Gameson221b
Summary: Following a near fatal attack on John, Sherlock is determined to protect the love of his life at all cost. A decision to take John away from Baker Street is more dangerous than Sherlock could have foreseen.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

 **Tender Care**

* * *

The detective slipped through the black door to the Baker Street flat, hung his great coat on its peg, and silently ascended the stairs two at a time. Pausing on the landing, Sherlock listened for signs of activity. A brief silence greeted him before he discerned the faint clink of a teacup against its saucer. The sound drew him to enter via the kitchen where he encountered Mrs. Hudson sipping her early evening tea, with soother, and reading the daily newspaper.

Not at all surprised by his sudden appearance, his elderly landlady smiled up at him while attempting to hide some of her reading material. "Hello, dear. How was your day?"

He grimaced, more at the other scandalous newspaper she tucked beneath her skirt rather than the question she posed, but he made no comment regarding the former. "Abominably dull without John."

Mrs. Hudson nodded her head at his complaint, a warm smile tilting her lips. "Well, it's good you're home."

"Is he all right?"

Folding her reading against her chest, she sighed. "Irritable, the poor dear. He finally fell asleep on the sofa."

Toeing out of his shoes, Sherlock padded across the sitting room floor to where John lay at the end of the sofa, nearly buried beneath the duvet from their bedroom.

Dropping to his knees, he pressed the back of his hand to the doctor's cheek. "He's a bit warm and flushed. When?-"

"About six," she said, responding to his aborted query.

His attention so focused on John, he hadn't noticed that she'd followed until she appeared beside him.

"He'll probably sleep a while longer then. Has he eaten? Kept it down?" he whispered after John stirred, then settled, to encourage Mrs. Hudson to do the same. She followed his lead.

"I made porridge for him. He seemed to like that. He's managed a toast and tea. I didn't think a Jammie Dodger was a good idea, but he insisted. He wanted to feel a bit normal, I think. He kept it down, but didn't take his usual second."

Sherlock imagined the frown that must have adorned John's lips.

Mrs. Hudson's gentle hand upon his arm drew his gaze to her soft smile. His landlady was much more observant that given credit.

"I'll leave you to it, then," she said as they walked back to the kitchen. "I've put some vegetable stew in your fridge. It should suit him when he's hungry. And there is still some porridge from this morning that you can warm up if he'd rather. Have you eaten?"

Sherlock patted her hand. "The stew will be just fine, Mrs. Hudson, thank you. I'm more tired than hungry. I appreciate that you stayed with John while I was out for a longer time than I expected."

Mrs. Hudson squeezed his arm, then returned to the table to retrieve her cup and place it into the sink. He followed so any further conversation wouldn't disturb John.

"It was no trouble at all," she whispered over her shoulder. "He's a dear. Will you be going out again tomorrow?"

"No, the case is solved, and unless an emergency arises, I don't expect Lestrade will need my assistance for some time."

"I'll be going to the shops with Mrs. Turner tomorrow. If you need anything, Sherlock, just give a shout."

Sherlock kissed her cheek. "Thank you."

"He missed you, you know. He stood at the window for a bit, watching for you."

Sherlock offered his warmest smile to the elderly woman, but he really wanted her to leave. "Yes, thank you again, Mrs. Hudson, for taking such good care of John today, and me, well, both of us, every day, really."

"Oh, Sherlock, you know I would do anything for my boys."

He smiled again. Impatiently. "I know."

With that, Mrs. Hudson retreated. Sherlock listened for her soft, hesitant footsteps on the stairs and the gentle click of her flat door before returning his full attention to his slumbering doctor.

Twitching the duvet away from John's face, Sherlock lowered it to his waist to peer beneath the t-shirt he wore. The detective recognised it as one of his own. Whenever John was feeling out of sorts, whether physically or emotionally, he invariably appropriated a shirt. He claimed it made him feel closer to Sherlock. Having worn John's t-shirts on occasions too numerous to count, the detective understood the need and the sentiment.

Pressing his fingertips along the edges of the bandage to check for any warmth or redness that might mean infection, he found none, which relieved his concern. Later, when John was awake, he'd change both the dressing and bandage as the emergency doctor had instructed him.

For long moments, Sherlock gazed at his partner, the man he loved with all his battered heart, and as had been the case over the past few days, his eyes brimmed as he remembered how one slash of a knife very nearly took John's life.

"No. Stop. Just stop."

The detective started at John's soft, slurred voice. "John. You're awake...obviously as you're speaking to me." He shook his head at his own absurd response. "How are you feeling?"

With a wavering finger, John swiped away the tears from Sherlock's cheek, and tapped his lower lip in an admonishment that Sherlock understood. "Yes, John, no regrets."

John's gaze was unfocused, but warm and steady, reminding Sherlock again how much he loved this man.

"Help me to sit up?"

"Is that wise?"

John frowned. "I'm the doctor here, you're just a consulting detective." He looked up suddenly, his blue eyes reflecting his sorrow at the outburst.

Taking no offence, Sherlock chuckled as he slid his arm behind his doctor and eased him to a sitting position, then steadied him when he groaned and leaned his head against Sherlock's shoulder. Wedging himself between John's knees and resting his hands on each of John's hips, he leaned forward to properly support John's weight.

"I need to kiss you now, Dr. Watson," Sherlock whispered as he moved away just enough to see John's beautiful face.

"I would like that very much."

John's eyes closed and he sighed when Sherlock took his mouth. A moment later, when John suddenly stiffened, crying out against the detective's lips, Sherlock stopped, palming John's face.

"John, what is it? Did I hurt you? Oh, God, I'm so sorry. I didn't think..."

"Stop," John demanded past gritted teeth. Pulling in deep breaths and shaking his head, John reached for Sherlock's wrists.

"It's okay. It's easing off now. Help me up, please?"

"John? Are you sure?"

"I don't think I have the strength to walk too far yet, but I've slept most of the day, didn't want to ask Mrs. Hudson to help, and if I don't get to the loo right now..."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Sherlock still held John's face in his hands. "How should I help you? Tell me what to do."

"I think I need to move to the edge of the sofa."

"Okay. If I put my hands under your bum to slide you forward, would that work?"

"Let's try it, just don't grope."

Sherlock snorted. When his plan worked and John didn't groan, he wanted to cheer, but held back because it felt wrong.

"Stand?"

"Yes," John said, his speech clipped and pain-filled.

"I'll bend so you can put your hands on my shoulders. Then I can lift you up."

John shook his head, his lips pressed together in a thin line. "I don't think I can stand straight, so I'll hold your belt, but I have to get up now. I can't wait any longer."

On his feet and slightly bent at the waist, John dragged in several deep breaths before leaning his head against Sherlock's chest. With an arm round him just enough to support, the detective guided John across the sitting room and down the hall to the loo.

"John?"

"I think I can do this alone."

"Are you sure?"

"No, but I don't want to embarrass either of us."

Sherlock waggled his eyebrows, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

"Not embarrassed in the least, John."

John looked up at him with a shy smile. "Right, well.."

Sherlock waited at the door until he heard handwashing, then stepped inside to offer his help. John accepted with obvious relief, letting Sherlock guide him into the hall.

"Would you be more comfortable in bed?"

John looked up at him, indecision clear in the way he bit his lower lip. "My chair? Would you mind? I'll be quiet if you want to work, probably just fall asleep again anyway."

After pressing a kiss to the top of John's head, Sherlock walked him to his chair, easing him down into it. "No work tonight. I'm here just for you."

"I'll be fine here, if you'd like to shower and change into something more comfortable."

Sherlock leered at him. "John Watson, are you trying to seduce me?"

John squinted up at him. "God, no, couldn't. Maybe kissing?"

"I'm flattered, my dear doctor, and yes, I would like to shower, but only if you promise not to move from this chair. I won't be but ten minutes. We'll have dinner in front of the fire."

"Yes, all right, I promise not to move."

* * *

Sherlock returned to the sitting room within the promised ten minutes to find John slumped in his chair, chin dropped to his chest. A kiss to his temple was just enough to rouse him.

John lifted his head. "I'm awake...I'm...awake."

"Are you sure, John?"

"No..yes, really. Oh." John said, his blue eyes wide and his mouth tilted up on one side. "You're teasing."

Sherlock presented his most innocent smile and, of course, his doctor reciprocated with his John smile, the one reserved just for him. The smile that always did delicious things to his, well, best not to think of such things at the moment, he decided.

"Ah, John Watson, you are a balm to my heart."

"Yes, so you've told me."

Wrapping his long fingers round John's smaller ones, Sherlock drew gentle circles over the backs of John's hands. He leaned forward, nuzzling their noses together until John raised his head for a another kiss.

"I amend that statement, my dear Dr. Watson, you are my heart."

John dropped his head to Sherlock's shoulder, rolling it from side to side. He sighed.

"John?"

"I'm fine. Just weary."

"You need to eat. Mrs. Hudson left us some vegetable stew, easily digested, she said."

"Yes, that would be good."

When John tried to lean forward as though to stand, Sherlock pressed him back into the chair. "Please, John, let me take care of you. Just rest."

"I want to help."

"I know, that's what you do best, just not this time. Please?"

John's blue eyes seemed to penetrate deep into Sherlock's soul, if one could be found lurking about somewhere inside him, but John wasn't deducing, he was...loving him with his eyes, which set off electrical impulses along his spine.

Sherlock cleared his throat, certain that John had once again cast over him a delightful, magical spell. If John were capable of such a thing, he welcomed it.

Pulling back slowly, he released John's hands, and rose to his feet. "I'll feed the fire, then heat our dinner."

John looked up at him, resting his head against the back of the chair. "Okay."

Sherlock padded away toward the kitchen, pausing in the doorway to look at the back of John's sandy head. Two short strides brought him behind the chair. He kissed the top of that head and tousled the fine, short hair. John reached up with his right hand to pat Sherlock's cheek.

"I love you, too."

* * *

Sherlock couldn't remember a dinner he'd enjoyed quite as much as this one. Well, if he were honest, he did remember another, but this was a very close second to dinner at Angelo's that first night now so long ago. Unlike that night, this time, food actually entered his digestive system.

He'd pushed the chairs together to face the fireplace, placing the table that usually sat beside John's chair between them. He'd served their dinner from there, then their tea, and finally, chocolate fairy cakes with raspberry icing.

John ate sparingly and slowly, sipping his tea as he nibbled a fairy cake. Nodding now and then while Sherlock talked about the case with Lestrade and the Yarders, the doctor soon grew quiet. Sherlock ceased his attempts to amuse John to simply observe him.

Jaw tight. Pain. Shallow breathing, also pain related. Smudges beneath unfocused, shiny eyes. The most telling of all: fisted hands that he tried to hide, but Sherlock saw. Time for bed and painkillers.

"John?"

John groaned pitifully. "Sherlock, I need to lie down. I don't feel well."

"Emesis?"

"No, oh, thank Christ, no." John grimaced, then shivered.

"Right, painful."

"Yes, very. No, I'm lightheaded. If I just lie down, I think it would be better." John reached for Sherlock's hand.

"All right. We should change your dressing as well to see how things are going."

"It's been only two days home, Sherlock, there won't be any noticeable change."

"Nevertheless, your doctor stressed that the wound needs to be cleaned and the dressing changed at least once daily for the first five days at home."

"Yes, Dr. Holmes."

Sherlock pressed his palm to John's cheek. "Yes, John, for the time being, that's just what I am. I'm pleased to do this for you."

Once again Sherlock helped John slide to the edge of the chair, and with his hands at his hips, lifted the doctor to his feet. John's pain-filled groan struck him, inverting his gut.

Once upright, John reached for the dishes, but Sherlock stopped him. "No, John. Once you're safely in bed, I'll come back for this."

Twining their fingers, Sherlock walked close beside his doctor toward the loo, all the while observing John's stiff-legged, definitely pained gait. With each step, his heart ached.

"Stay with me? In our bed. Sherlock, I need to have you with me tonight."

"John, whinging is a pointless exercise. I'm very adept at ignoring whinging when it's for your own good."

"I hate being bullied," John mumbled irritably from his place on the toilet seat while Sherlock prepared his toothbrush.

Using his drama queen face to make John laugh, Sherlock pouted. "I don't bully," he said with his best whinge.

John snapped the brush from his hand, nearly dropping it. "Yeah, you do."

Sherlock searched his thoughts for something to sidetrack him, make him laugh again, or both. He smiled when it came to him. "John, am I, or am I not your commanding officer?"

A brief grin creeped along John's lips. "No," he insisted, pulling himself up to stand in front of the sink.

"Well, maybe not. Am I, or am I not the current King of England?"

John snuffled, holding a hand to his chest. "No."

"Your caregiver, then?"

"Maybe, but I don't want a caregiver. Look, I just brushed my teeth all by myself."

Sherlock frowned, slowly shaking his head while looking at John's reflection looking back at him from the mirror.

John sighed. "Oh, all right, yes you are."

"Then you will acquiesce to my request to care for you?"

"Yes, Sherlock, I said yes just a moment ago."

"No need to be irritable, John."

"I'm not-"

Sherlock issued a half-hearted warning. "John?"

"Sherlock."

"Point taken." When Sherlock smiled at him, John pursed his lips in huffing annoyance, but only for a moment. Framing John's beloved face with his elegant hands, the detective covered the doctor's mouth with his own.

When they finally arrived in the bedroom, Sherlock settled John onto the bed before leaving to gather what they needed. When he returned to the bedside with the first aid kit, John's medical bag, a basin of water and several flannels, John lay still, but pain etched deep lines round his mouth and across his brow. Without a word, the detective strode with purpose to the kitchen to retrieve John's pills and a glass of water.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Sherlock rested his hand on John's arm to gain his attention.

"Mmm?"

"Are you in pain? Truth."

For a long moment John didn't answer. Pulling in a breath, he finally opened his eyes. "Sorry, Sherlock, I don't like to whinge, but it really hurts. Is it time for more?"

"I don't suppose ten minutes makes much of a difference?"

A wisp of a smile touched John's lips. "I think I'll be okay to take it ten minutes early."

Reading the label carefully, as he never failed to do, Sherlock tapped two tablets into his palm, held them out to John with one hand, offering a glass of water with the other.

The speed with which John swallowed the pills confirmed what Sherlock already knew. His doctor had been hiding his pain until it became unbearable.

"You're perspiring, John, your face is as flushed as it was when I first arrived home. Is your pain more than the effectiveness of the painkillers?"

"No."

Sherlock shook his head. "John, it isn't complaining if you tell me that the pills are not relieving your pain."

The surprise he failed to hide indicated that John realized he'd been found out. "You're a terrible liar. You know you can't hide anything from me. I don't understand why you still try."

"I'm a terrible patient. I don't want to be a burden or an insufferable idiot!" John threw up his hands in anger, then quickly held his left arm against his body, pain evident in the straight line of his mouth, and the cry he couldn't swallow.

Sherlock crawled onto the bed to sit cross-legged next to John's hip. He stared at John's hand in his for a long moment while gathering his thoughts. When he finally spoke, he used his gentlest voice.

"You are a terrible patient-"

John looked away. "I think we've already established that."

"But you are my terrible patient, I love you. You are not, nor will you ever be a burden to me." Pulling the duvet up round John's shoulders gave him the opportunity to be close. "I'm going to kiss you now."

"Okay," John said, as tears overflowed and streaked down his cheeks.

"Sometimes, you are an idiot when you forget that there is nothing you could do or say that would make me un-love you."

"I know...I'm sorry, wait, what? Un-love?"

"Do you?"

"What?"

"John, you know I detest repeating myself, so just this one time. Do you know that there is nothing-"

"Yes! I know...I think I'm confused? Unlove? Is that like unfriending someone on social media?"

"Shut up, John."

With great care not to brush against John's injury, Sherlock straddled John on hands and knees to plunder the doctor's mouth. John lay still with eyes closed.

"Better?"

"Mmm."

"Good. Shall we tend to your injury now?"

"Please, Sherlock, then I need to sleep, if I can. It's the only relief I have, well, except for kissing, but we can't kiss all the time."

"We could try?"

John giggled, then gasped. "Oh, don't make me laugh. It hurts."

"Sorry."

Once John settled and his pain ebbed, Sherlock returned to the edge of the bed to tend to his doctor's wound.

"Thank you for taking care of me, Sherlock. It means a lot to me."

"I've never wanted to be a caretaker for anyone before, not even myself, but you, taking care of you makes me feel more human, not just useful because of my brain."

John raised a hand to feather his fingers along the detective's cheek. "You are very human, Sherlock. More human than you think, but I've told you that more than once, it's an old story now. You just need to believe it." John tapped his finger against Sherlock's chest, where his heart lay beneath. "Right in here."

Under other circumstances, Sherlock could have, would have preened under John's praise. The warmth inside him was more, somehow, deeper, more substantial. Something beyond himself.

"Shall we get on with this so you can get some rest?"

"All right."

"I need to refresh this water, it's gone cold."

John nodded. "Okay."

Sherlock tipped his head to the side. "I love you."

John sighed, deep, shaky, but he seemed a bit more comfortable.

Sherlock thought perhaps the pills were at last offering some relief.

Sherlock stood, and turned away, basin in hand.

"I love you, too, you giant git."

The detective shot a grin over his shoulder. "I won't be but a minute."

* * *

"Am I hurting you?" Sherlock asked as he peeled back the edge of adhesive covering the wound.

"Pinches a bit, but it's fine."

"I'm afraid that if I pull it quickly, which is proven to be less painful, it's so large it might tear the stitches if any bodily fluid is stuck to it."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

With caring, gentle fingers, Sherlock eased the rest of the adhesive bandage from John's skin. The dressing came away easily, no dried blood clung to the gauze.

"Oh."

"Sherlock, what is it? Is something wrong?"

"I-"

"What Sherlock? You've gone pale. Are you going to faint?"

"John?"

John struggled to sit up. "Sherlock, you're scaring me, what is it?"

Sherlock blinked, breathed heavily. "No, John, it's all right. I didn't...realize. I never saw-"

John gripped his wrist. "Tell me, Sherlock."

Sherlock coughed suddenly. When he finally found his voice, he gazed at his doctor with a renewed sense of how precious John was to him.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, his words catching in his throat.

"Oh, no, don't. I was stupid to do what I did. It's my own fault."

"No! No, John. Just...No." Sherlock's eyes filled without warning. Again. _What was wrong with him? Sentiment?_

Tears blurring his vision, the detective leaned down to press a kiss to the skin above the angry slice that began at John's sternum and continued at an angle to the hollow between his lowest rib and his hip. Sturdy fingers tangled in Sherlock's curls over the curve of his skull.

"It's okay, love. We're okay," John whispered.

Sherlock struggled for control, his chest hurting when his wayward thoughts turned in a direction he didn't want to examine. Pulling back suddenly, he swiped both palms across his eyes to deny any more tears.

Sherlock snapped on surgical gloves to disinfect the area as John directed him, taking care not to disturb the stitches. The doctor inspected his wound for himself from the detailed photos Sherlock produced with his phone.

John shook his head grinning at Sherlock. "A mirror would do. Only you would think of that. You are such a git."

Sherlock grinned, his eyes still watery and threatening to spill over again.

"...but lovely. Thank you."

Sherlock gazed at John with an intensity that often frightened their clients, but not his doctor-soldier. John always knew, never shrinking from it.

"I just need to put the new dressing on now. Then you can sleep."

"Sherlock? You're doing it again."

"I'm sorry?"

"You're blaming yourself because I got hurt and you weren't there in time to protect me."

Sherlock lowered his head. John knew him so well. "Don't be an idiot, John."

"If our roles were reversed, I would be the one feeling guilty. It's what we do, it's who we are. So, just stop it. It's over, we're okay, Sherlock. I don't want to talk about it anymore. Please?"

Sherlock didn't respond or try to deny his feelings of guilt, he simply couldn't find the words, so he nodded his assent, and continued tending to John's wound.

Well aware that John watched him when he returned a second time with refreshed water, he kept his eyes averted as he bathed John, carefully drying as he finished each area. Drawing the duvet up to John's chin, he sighed.

"A clean T-shirt?"

"Please."

"Pyjama bottoms as well?"

"Yes, please."

He sensed rather than saw the tiny smile on John's lips. Struggling to control a smile of his own, the detective returned all the necessities to their proper places.

Rummaging through his own and John's nightclothes, he brought suitable items to the bedside.

"Your pyjama bottoms, flannel for warmth."

"I'm sure you'll keep me warm, love."

The detective smirked. "Oh, I intend to. One of my T-shirts again?"

"Yes."

Sherlock bit his lower lip. "How-"

"Help me up."

"John."

"You're a temporary doctor, Sherlock, I'm the doctor this time."

"You are a stubborn man."

"Still the only doctor here."

"Very well."

"Thank you."

Just a silent grimace as John rolled to the edge of the bed was all the confirmation Sherlock needed to know the medication had begun its task.

In comfortable silence, Sherlock freed John's right arm from the soiled T-shirt, slipped it over his head and down his left arm. With a bit of help, John stood briefly to pull the pyjama bottoms to his waist, but dropped suddenly to the edge of the bed when his legs wobbled, refusing to bear his weight.

Raising his eyes to lock with John's became Sherlock's biggest and best mistake. John leaned forward to claim his lips in a prolonged, needy kiss. When John shivered several minutes later, Sherlock pulled back to gaze at his flushed face. Steadying him when he swayed forward, the detective used the opportunity to feather a kiss to each collarbone and the hollow of his throat.

"Sherlock?"

"You're cold?"

"No."

In reverse order, he soon had the T-shirt on with no groan from John. Kissing him again seemed the best thing to do.

"You need to lie down and get some sleep."

The doctor didn't protest when Sherlock helped him back into bed. Once prone, head cradled by one pillow and another under his knees, John sighed in what Sherlock believed was relief. Pressing a kiss to the top of John's disheveled hair, and twitching the duvet round him, the detective turned off the bedside lamp.

John was asleep before Sherlock left the room.

* * *

In the kitchen Sherlock tended to the washing up. He surveyed the fridge contents, making a mental list of the needed foods. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson could watch over John during the next afternoon instead of asking her to shop for them.

Domesticity was not and never would be within his realm of important things, but for John he performed it willingly, binning his experiments as well as anything else non-edible.

Securing the screen on the hearth to contain any wayward embers from the dying fire, he paused for a moment to stare at the skull and trace a finger over its frontal bone.

"Sorry I haven't visited very much lately. I haven't forgotten you. It's just that John is a better conversationalist than you are even when he's injured. He helps me. I'm better with him. And he loves me back."

Sighing deeply, Sherlock turned from the mantle, moving quickly to close the flat doors for the night. The light over the cooker supplied the only illumination to navigate his way to the loo.

His personal needs took only brief moments to complete. Scrubbing his fingers through his hair calmed him as he thought about John's chiding him for feeling guilty about his injury. Huffing out a frustrated breath, he returned to the bedside to gaze down at the man he loved, the man he'd never imagined would love him back, but did, wholeheartedly, and with every molecule of himself. Sherlock was humbled in the face of that knowledge.

Sometime later, still warm with the thoughts of John's love for him, he slipped into bed to curl round his doctor as best he could given the nature of the injury, and pressing his lips to John's nape, allowed the guilt to dissipate. He knew it would return because there was always a next time with them, but at least for this moment, he could do that for the man he loved. Always for John.

Thoughts settled, finally, Sherlock slipped his arm between John's neck and the pillow and closed his eyes.

Stirring a bit, John drew in a slow breath. "Sherlock?"

"No one else in the world is allowed this close to you and not suffer the consequences, John."

John snorted a tiny laugh. "Love you."

"As I love you."

Sherlock interlocked their fingers, raising the back of John's hand to his lips to bestow a kiss. "Sleep well, my love," he whispered against John's ear.

John squeezed his hand, pulled it across his chest and secured it beneath his chin with his other hand. With John's head pillowed just above his elbow, Sherlock curled his arm to lay his hand on the crown of his doctor's fair head.

"I will love you forever."

Moments later, his mind for a rare time blissfully silent, and with John safely in his arms, Sherlock allowed sleep to claim him.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

 **Peas, Chocolate Pudding Cake and Sympathy**

* * *

Sherlock drifted, never fully awake or asleep, but remained attuned to any change in John's soft, shallow breaths. When a finger drawn down John's cheek elicited a small snuffle, Sherlock smiled. Satisfied, he allowed himself to accept sleep once more.

At three, the detective opened his eyes, fully alert, but not immediately able to determine what had disturbed him until small whimpers from the man beside him signaled pain, to which Sherlock quickly responded

"John?"

John's moan wrenched his heart. He couldn't bear it when John was in pain.

"John," he whispered close to his ear.

John groaned pitifully. "It hurts," he said, his voice tight.

"You can have more pills now. Is that what you want?"

"The nerves are firing. Feels like it's burning."

"Hospital?"

"No!" John nearly shouted, gripping Sherlock's hand hard enough to leave bruises.

"All right."

"Don't leave."

"Everything you need is here on the nightstand. I'll get it for you. Just lie still."

Easing off the bed so he wouldn't exacerbate John's discomfort, Sherlock padded to the other side of the bed to sit at his side.

"You need to eat something. You can't take these on an empty stomach."

"Not hungry."

"I understand, but you need to eat something. You know how you annoy me into eating when I don't want to? Well, I'm doing that to you now, so just eat the damn biscuit. I'll help you."

Breaking off a small portion, he slipped it into John's mouth. With a hand behind the doctor's head, he held the water glass to his lips.

"Small sips, John. You don't want to choke. Coughing wouldn't be a good thing for you."

When the last of the biscuit had been consumed, and the pills swallowed with more water, Sherlock stood suddenly. "Oh."

"Sherlock?"

"I have an idea."

John's hand shot out, his fingers like a vice round his wrist. "No, don't go."

"I just need to go to the kitchen. I'll come right back, John, he said, prising his wrist free from John's surprisingly strong grip.

"Sherlock?"

"Just for a minute, John," he called over his shoulder as he raced to the kitchen.

When he returned, John had thrown back the duvet as if he'd tried and failed to get out of bed.

"I'm here, John."

"Sherlock," he whispered. "What? What are you-"

"I'm going to stop the nerves from firing, as you described it, until the painkillers can do their work."

"How?"

"A plastic food bag, adhesive tape, a flannel and a bag of frozen peas. Oh, and chocolate pudding cake."

At John's confused expression, Sherlock dropped a quick kiss to his forehead. "I'll explain as I go along."

John drew in a shaky breath. "Hurts."

"I sympathise."

Pulling the duvet back up to John's hips, he sat beside his doctor, ignoring the Watson stare. So, no sympathy, then.

"First the flannel to protect the bandage. Next, the food bag to keep the condensation from the peas off the dressing. Medical adhesive from your kit so it won't slip off or irritate your skin. Now, the family size bag of peas. Why Mrs. Hudson thought we needed such a large bag is a mystery, but it suits."

John frowned, whether from pain or confusion Sherlock couldn't deduce, but it was the expression he tucked inside the John Watson room of his Mind Palace, for no other reason than just because.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"What's the chocolate pudding cake for?"

"Oh. Yes, well, it's for you. I remembered that Mrs. Hudson left it in our fridge for a treat when you came home from hospital. It got pushed to the back, behind, well, behind some other things that I binned earlier today, but it's not been opened and is perfectly safe. I cleaned the outside as a precaution."

John frowned, but apparently thought better of it, smiling instead. Not quite his John smile, but a reasonable facsimile, considering his pain.

"Good thinking."

"I thought we could share it."

John glanced at the clock on the nightstand. "At half three in the morning?"

"Is there a new law stating there is a special time at which pudding cake is supposed to be consumed, John?"

John pursed his lips, as though thinking about Sherlock's question. "No, I don't suppose there is...Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"The peas are working."

"As I expected."

"Gave them a stern warning, did you?"

Sherlock offered his best and warmest smile. "Quite."

Holding up the pudding container and a large spoon, Sherlock waggled his eyebrows. "Shall we indulge?"

"Carry on, Mr. Holmes," John quipped in a strained voice followed by a sudden hiss.

"John?"

"Just a twitch. I'm okay."

With an evil grin, Sherlock filled the first spoonful, touching the tip of the spoon to John's lips. It was plain to see that John struggled not to give in. Sherlock continued to tease and cajole to get him to eat small portions, once taking a mouthful of pudding, kissing him until he had to take it into his mouth. When he threatened to repeat the action, John turned his head away.

"Sorry, but that's disgusting. No more unless you use the spoon, Sherlock. I'll share the spoon," he said with a small wretch,

"but that's as much as I can do."

"Very well, but either way we are still sharing bod-"

"If you finish that sentence, Sherlock, I swear I will...bite you."

"Hm."

"Don't."

Sherlock grinned like a madman. "We've nearly finished it all. I think I will add it to the grocery needs for the next shops visit. Perhaps tomorrow," he whispered conspiratorially, dramatically looking round them as if for some invisible intruder. "I'm going to ask Mrs. Hudson to watch you. John?"

"No, Sherlock."

"John, you don't know what I'm going to ask."

"Whatever it is, I don't want to move. The peas worked, the pills are beginning to work. I just want to go back to sleep."

"I need to know if you have a fever. Your doctor said I should monitor your temperature a few times per day. I've been remiss. Please?"

"It's nearing four, Sherlock."

Sherlock pouted. "Very well."

John sighed in resignation. "Then can I sleep?"

"Yes, thank you, John."

"Orally, Sherlock."

"But, John?"

"No, Sherlock."

"All right. I'll fetch the thermometer, then return the peas and whatnot to the kitchen," he said as he padded down the hallway.

"Sherlock," John called out, "If the thermometer is anywhere but in my kit-"

"I'll disinfect it, John. I am a chemist, after all," the consulting detective responded, pretending to be insulted.

When Sherlock returned to the bedroom, he immediately observed the suspicious look on John's face. How did he always know?

Adopting his most contrite expression, he smiled. "I washed and disinfected it, John."

"Where was it? Do I want to know? No, I don't want to know. God, Sherlock."

"All right, we won't discuss it, but I can assure you it is perfectly safe at the moment. I used it on myself not two days ago."

"Why does that sentence not make me feel better?"

"Is that a rhetorical question, John?" Sherlock asked as he stood beside the bed. "It was used orally, if you need to know."

"Never mind, Sherlock. Please, let's get on with it so I go back to sleep."

John took the thermometer from Sherlock's hand when he sat down on the bed, eyeing it with new suspicion.

"Perfectly safe, John, I assure you. You've always trusted me."

"I trust you with my life, Sherlock, it's just some of your methods that are rather questionable. And don't give me that drama queen look. It doesn't work on me anymore."

Sherlock huffed, but his sulk only lasted a moment before he retrieved the thermometer, slipping it under John's unusually hateful, un-busy tongue. He smirked at the thought of what that tongue could do.

While they waited for the beep, Sherlock held John's hand, tracing circles into his palm with his thumb.

"Thirty-eight point three."

"As long as it doesn't go any higher, it's all fine."

"As long as you do as you are supposed to, you will be fine. Please, John. Would you do this for me?"

"Yes, Sherlock. I would do almost anything for you, but you already know that."

Sherlock crawled into bed beside John, snuggling close, pillowing his doctor's head against his shoulder. When John nuzzled into his neck, Sherlock cradled the top of his head with his palm. Holding him in such a way allowed John to relax against him. It wasn't but a few minutes before John went boneless in his arms, his breathing soft and slow. Kissing the beloved forehead, Sherlock drifted off to sleep.

Daylight slipped through the windows, waking Sherlock while John appeared serene in his slumber. Pressing the back of his hand to John's cheek, he determined that his fever had subsided.

"Fever gone, Doctor?" John asked over a yawn and a quickly aborted muscle stretch.

Adopting his most professional demeanor, Sherlock cleared his throat. "Yes, Dr. Watson, I believe it has."

"I woke a bit ago and my head was fairly clear, so I knew it was on its way back to normal."

"But your voice is still asleep. Rusty and sluggish."

"Only you would describe my voice as rusty."

"That's because you are no ordinary man. You deserve extraordinarily descriptive words."

John huffed. "Thank you for that, I think."

"When you're ready, I have some waterproof bandages that will enable us to shower."

"Us?"

"Yes, John, us. You're not steady enough to shower by yourself."

"Oh. Well, if you promise not to take advantage of my weakened state."

Sherlock twisted his mouth to the side as he gazed at John. He added the rolling of his eyes for good measure. "It will be soooo hard to do this for you, but I promise that I will control my lust for you until such time as you are able to reciprocate."

John lifted his chin, smirking at him with eyes blown wide with love. "And not a moment longer?"

Sherlock laughed, nuzzling John's ear. "Not a single moment."

"That being said, I need to use the loo. I think I can manage it alone. I appreciate that you helped me yesterday, but I need to move a bit more. Probably sleep less."

"As a precaution, I will follow you round like a puppy. I will, however, assist if I think you are going to injure yourself further."

John huffed and glared at him, all to Sherlock's amusement.

"It's just a gash, Sherlock. Not to worry."

"A _gash,_ as you described it, which was, incidentally, 20.32 centimeters in length, 3.81 centimeters in depth, might have been a lot worse if you hadn't had immediate care. Or if you'd been alone. I don't want to think about how quickly you would have bled to death," he finished, the knot in his throat highlighting his anguish at the memory.

 _Don't leave me, John. Stay with me. There's so much blood. John! Open your eyes. John? John! No, John, don't leave me here alone._

Only silence greeted the detective when he stepped back into himself. He waited for the string of curses that usually followed when Sherlock angered John. When it didn't come, he observed the softening of John's rigid expression. The doctor's eyes filled, but he turned away as if to hide his tears.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry I hurt you and that you worried about me."

"John."

Sherlock moved to extricate himself from John and the duvet, but he didn't go far. Cocooning him with long limbs, he held his doctor as best he could without putting pressure on his chest.

John looked up at him then, now fully awake, his watery eyes filled with so much love it took Sherlock's breath away.

Pressing his lips to John's forehead, he trailed kisses from one cheekbone to the other, stopping only briefly at the tip of his nose, continuing along his strong jaw to his chin and the hollow of his throat. Before Sherlock could make the return journey, John snaked his good arm round his neck, pressing his mouth against the curls at his temple.

"I love you more than I can say," he said, his voice breaking, the army soldier-doctor no longer present. It was just John.

"I love you so much that my heart aches with it. I want to hold you against me, but I'm afraid to hurt you. You need to know that. If there was a way to do that without causing you additional pain, I would gladly do it."

John was silent. When he finally spoke, Sherlock listened with an intensity far surpassing his usual attention.

"Lie on my right side, Sherlock. Please. You won't hurt me, I promise. We can do this. What you did during the night, the way you tried to hold me, I've missed that. I need it. I think you need it, too."

Sherlock wouldn't deny John's request. He'd turn himself into a pretzel if it meant holding John close. John was correct. He needed the closeness just as much. So, in for a penny, in for a pound, the detective obeyed.

"Lie on my right side, please," John repeated, in his not-even-close to Captain's voice.

Sherlock followed John's instruction with great care.

"Now turn on your left side."

John reached across the small distance between them, resting his hand on Sherlock's waist, and with his fingers, urged Sherlock closer. Once again the detective obliged. With a small whimper, John used Sherlock's body to roll himself onto his right side.

When he realised what John had in mind, Sherlock reached for him, placing his hand at the small of his back to help him roll forward. John cried out in pain, but continued his small journey toward Sherlock. When he couldn't bear to hear John groan again, he wriggled as close as he dared. John pulled him closer until they were just touching, chest to chest.

"Are you all right?"

"I just need to put my arm against your chest. I think I'll be fine."

Instead of waiting for John to move again, Sherlock did it for him. The doctor's hand flat against his chest made him shiver with the need to be as close as possible to the man he loved.

"I don't know how long I can stay like this, but it's the best I've felt since...before...Sherlock, could you please put your arms round me?"

"Of course."

"I'm feeling shaky, like I might float away. I need to hold on to you. Please, Sherlock."

"Just tell me what you want, John. I will do anything to help you. I'm here just for you."

John pressed his face into the warm place where neck met shoulder. When he began to cry, Sherlock held him, caressing up and down his back.

"It's all right John, let it all out. I'm here. I love you. I think I've loved you from the first moment I saw you and I will love you forever. There was never anyone remotely like you...before, there will never be anyone ever again. I promise you that, John. It's my very last vow that supersedes all others."

"I was so afraid," John choked out between sobs.

"Yes."

"I didn't want him to hurt you. I was afraid you would walk into the middle of it without knowing and he would cut you instead. Or worse."

Sherlock held John a bit tighter, waiting for, but hoping against a whimper of pain. He was more than grateful for the relief the painkillers gave John.

"It's all right now, John. We're safe, he's in custody and you can be sure Greg will not allow him to escape. We can trust Greg, you know that. I wouldn't trust Anderson, I might trust Donovan or Dimmock, but not Anderson, so we don't have to worry about that."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm really sorry. I've let you down, I've disappointed you. I'm sorry."

Sherlock stilled at the words that were so unlike the John he knew. Shifting his position enough to see the doctor's face, he forced John to look at him.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, John. No. You have never disappointed me. How could you ever think such a thing? You are my conductor of light. I depend on you."

John's eyes were blown wide, the most intense blue Sherlock had ever seen. So blue, he thought he could almost see deep into John's soul, if that were even possible. Knowing this man, having the privilege of investigating the mystery that was John Watson, his doctor-soldier, was a gift. John's heart was the gift he wanted to open every day for the rest of his life.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

 **Sad and Confused, With Love**

* * *

"Sherlock, I can wash myself," John protested, knowing he'd already lost the battle of wills with the only consulting detective in the world.

"John?"

John recognized it as the first warning that it was, but he felt just enough off and stubborn, so he didn't much care. Because he couldn't physically, he pushed back verbally, in a very loud voice.

"I'm not an invalid!"

"John-"

The second warning forced him to clench his jaw to glower at Sherlock with every bit of outrage he could summon, which he discovered too late was very little. He wanted to shout again that he wasn't a child, and didn't like being treated like one.

"I feel much better," he lied in a voice that, even in his muddled mind, bordered on whinging. He knew, that surrender was inevitable and just a moment away. Judging by the expression on Sherlock's face, he knew as well.

"John."

Following the third warning, pronounced in a voice not unlike his own danger voice, John scowled some more. Sherlock frowned, but the quirk of his lip was John's undoing.

"Shite."

Averting his gaze to anywhere but the detective's all-seeing eyes, he leaned into Sherlock's strong arms the moment they circled his shoulders.

"That's my captain."

John looked up, sputtering as the water cascaded over their heads. The soft expression adorning Sherlock's face and the love so obvious in those extraordinary eyes was more than he could bear.

John snorted. "Bollocks. Some soldier I am."

"My own personal doctor-slash-soldier."

"Right."

"Soon, John, when you are stronger, you will have your privacy back."

John's anger, ignited by Sherlock's awkward concern, exploded in his chest. "Sherlock, I don't have any privacy. I live with you."

If he hadn't been looking directly at Sherlock, he would have missed the hurt evident only to him before it disappeared behind the classic Sherlock Holmes 'I don't understand this, so I'll just say what I think John wants to hear' face. Sherlock's emotional defences were non-existent when they were alone together. John hated himself every time an unguarded word struck Sherlock's tender heart.

"I understand, John."

Of course, they both knew he was lying. Try as Sherlock might, empathy, though much better than the early days, was still a work in progress. So, as he most often did, John placed the blame back on himself.

"No, Sherlock, you don't. I'm sorry, I didn't mean it the way it came out. I'm still off, maybe the pills. Shite. Just ignore me."

Sherlock shook his head, casting water everywhere. "Ignore you? I think not. Lean against me while I wash your hair."

While long fingers massaged his scalp, John smiled against Sherlock's chest, holding tight to his waist because he was weak in the knees. If he swooned, he'd never live it down. Sherlock would tease him mercilessly. His inevitable argument that soldiers and doctors never swooned would not deter the consulting detective.

"You're getting wrinkly, love. The water's cooling down, and I need to get out."

Sherlock huffed, then chuckled. "Bugger," he said, turning off the water.

John shrugged, patting Sherlock's bum. "Yes, well."

"Excuse me, Dr. Watson, personal space, if you don't mind."

"Personal space my arse, Sherlock."

Folded into strong arms, John clung to him for a few moments, resting his cheek against Sherlock's chest. "A magnificent arse it is, John," he said, patting the doctor's bum.

John sniffed, forcing himself not to encourage Sherlock with a laugh.

"You didn't eat much for breakfast. Feeling peckish?"

"No, but I think I could eat something small. Whatever is in the fridge is fine."

"I think I can do better than something from the fridge, John."

Standing naked in the loo with a rather large bandage on his abdomen did little for his morale, better when Sherlock draped a bath sheet round him and lifted his chin with one long finger to capture his mouth. Well, quite a lot better, but still far short. John wasn't sure what caused him to feel sad, but, as Sherlock often declared, until he had more data, a conclusion could not be had. So, he blamed it on the medication for now.

"John? You seem.."

"I don't know. I don't know. It's like I'm adrift somehow, like I'm not connected. Like I don't belong? You know what I mean?" John smiled, looking away toward the wall. "No you don't, hm. You know what? It's okay. I'm just out of sorts, I guess. It'll pass." When he smiled, he was sure it didn't reach his eyes, and his consulting detective detected everything about him that was detectable in seven seconds. It was what he did so well.

Sherlock closed in on him, holding him gently to avoid pressure on his chest, and rested his chin on the top of his head.

"You're connected to me. You always will be because I won't let anything happen to change that."

"I know."

"Do you?"

John nodded against Sherlock's chest.

"You are mine, John. Only mine and I won't share."

"No one else wants me, so."

"I want you. You do know that, don't you?"

John shrugged, instantly regretted the motion.

"After all this time you still doubt?"

"No, I know you love me and you want me, I do, it's just that-"

"No, John. I don't just want you for sex. I want you with everything that I am, which sometimes is woefully short of what you deserve. I want you in every possible way. I've not loved anyone the way I love you, and because I'll love you forever, you must never doubt."

Sherlock held him tenderly. He would have wrapped his arms round Sherlock's waist, but he was a prisoner of the bath sheet. Then, beneath his ear, was the thundering of Sherlock's heart, and he found the reason to believe.

Although Sherlock hovered, he watched while John dressed himself, kneeling only when his socks proved problematic.

"Thank you, love."

"Welcome?"

"Thank you for letting me do some things for myself."

"I will endeavor to do so, but I'm a very impatient man."

"Yeah, but not all the time." John ducked his head to hide the blush he felt creeping up his neck.

"You're an adorable man."

John scowled. "No, I'm really not."

"As someone I love and deeply respect once said, 'I know the real you.'"

"Mycroft's an idiot."

Sherlock smiled, nuzzling against John's ear. "I believe those were your words, not Mycroft's, and you are not an idiot."

John struggled to lift himself from the toilet seat. As he did so, in the tail of his eye, he observed Sherlock's hands reach toward him, but then fall away, inserting themselves into his trouser pockets. When he realized he wished Sherlock's hands were on him instead, he felt himself blush again, but didn't try to hide it from the detective.

Standing as straight as his body allowed, John stepped forward to rest his hands on Sherlock's hips, tilting his head to receive a kiss.

"I want you, too, John, but I promised," he whispered. "We have to be careful for a while."

"Bugger."

* * *

Being a doctor didn't help John's impatience with his recovery. He caught himself huffing and puffing, moaning and groaning at the inactivity he was forced to endure because his body couldn't cooperate. John fully understood the irrationality of it, but no matter. His healing body would take its own time. It was hateful, as Sherlock often proclaimed.

He tried pacing. Two trips round the sitting room exhausted him, forcing him to sit down. Resuming his journey after a short rest, he felt those all-seeing eyes following him from the table where Sherlock sat perusing the daily newspapers.

"John, would you help me, please?"

"Don't patronize me, Sherlock. I'm not up to it."

Sherlock sighed non-verbally, another action he was very good at, and something John couldn't ignore.

"I do need your help."

John rolled his eyes. "Help with what exactly?"

"When your pacing brings you this way, stop in at my table for a moment, please."

John murmured a retort Sherlock shouldn't have heard, but the man had the hearing of a...a...he didn't know what, but it was irritating. Everything irritated.

"Sorry," John said as he paused at the table. Sherlock drew him onto his lap, his back against Sherlock's chest, his arms resting loosely round John's hips.

"No need to apologise, John. 'Fuck off, Sherlock' is one of the more endearing expletives in your repertoire, even when unspoken. I do understand your frustration."

Startled when Sherlock nipped at his ear, he sighed, leaning into his touch.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like I'm here, but not, y'know?"

"For far too many years, John."

"I wish I'd known you then."

"No, John, you don't. If you had, I doubt we'd be together now."

John slowly shook his head. "I could have helped you."

"Perhaps, but it would have taken an enormous toll on you. I much prefer this time in my life. Having you with me now is worth all the pain of those early, stupid years."

"Mmm."

"Oh, look at you two lovebirds."

Sherlock turned his head toward the door where their landlady stood gazing at them, a tray of fairy cakes in her hands.

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson, how wonderful to see you so unexpectedly."

John tried to move away, but Sherlock held fast to his hips.

"I was just kissing John's ear and telling him how adorable he is."

"Sherlock!" John snapped at him, which in turn earned him a scorching kiss to the side of his mouth that he tried to resist, but failed, much to the delight of both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh, don't be shy, John. Mrs. Turner's married ones, and some of the others kiss in all sorts of ways round the building. You two are positively sweet compared to them."

"If only she knew," Sherlock murmured so softly only John heard.

John opened his mouth several times, but no words fell out. He blushed, again.

"I've brought you some more fairy cakes, boys. I can't eat them all myself," the dear woman called from their kitchen.

"Certainly, Mrs. Hudson. Your fairy cakes are the best in all of England."

John could hear Mrs. Hudson's soft laughter as she joined them in the sitting room.

"Go on, you two. Don't let me stop your...your snogging?"

"Oh, God," John said in a strangled whisper, but Sherlock just chuckled in that deep baritone that did unspeakable things to his nether region, and kissed his ear another time.

John swatted at him to stop, which he did, but not before Mrs. Hudson squeezed their respective shoulders.

"I'll be off now. Mrs. Turner and I are going to the shops if there is anything you need?"

"I think we're good, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said. "I think tomorrow will be my shops day, if you would look in on John?"

"Of course, dear, just give me a shout whenever you need me."

For his part, John covered his eyes and shook his head but remained silent until the woman's footsteps faded away.

"You are bad, William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

"Oh, go on, you love it, John."

John hung his head in mock exasperation. "No, I only love you."

"That is certainly my good fortune."

John's eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"What?"

"Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?"

"I don't understand."

John held Sherlock's wrist in his hand so he could see the face of his watch. "In thirty-six hours you have not once complained about being bored. You have not bothered Greg, nor has he called or texted you. You reviewed the notes I made for our most recent case, but we've not discussed them, nor have you insulted my _romanticized_ version of our last case. You haven't even mentioned The Work."

"Ah, The Work with a capital W."

John turned sideways on Sherlock's lap with some difficulty, resting his head on the detective's shoulder so that he was nuzzled into his neck.

"Well?"

"It's simple, John. You are currently what is important to me. Everything else is secondary, not on my radar at the moment. My full attention is on you, your needs. My goal is to help you heal. Nothing else matters. No one else matters. Just you."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"How was I lucky enough to be pulled into your orbit? Was it just a coincidence? Serendipity?"

"I have come to believe that my brother is correct when he says the universe is rarely so lazy."

"So we were meant to be together?"

"Let's not get into a discussion of fate or destiny. Everything worked out for us. I suspect that is more than enough to go on, don't you think?"

John pressed his lips to the hollow of Sherlock's throat. "I think you're right."

"Of course. Tea?"

John tipped his head, grinning at Sherlock's response. "Do we have any Jammie Dodgers to go with?"

"I believe there are some on the top shelf of the cupboard."

"Hiding them above my line of sight again?" John pushed aside the shirt collar to press soft kisses to the entire length of Sherlock's clavicle. The detective's shiver was the predictable, delightful response.

"Saving them for a special occasion, John," he said, tipping his head to allow John easy access.

"What special occasion?" John kissed along Sherlock's jaw.

"Uhm, I have you all to myself?"

John thought for a moment, smiled. "Okay, then."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

 **I'll Watch Over You**

* * *

After cancelling his shops visit and accepting Mrs. Hudson's offer to purchase a few items for them until he could place an online order, Sherlock closed and locked the doors.

The promise of a quiet afternoon of reading and cuddling on the sofa was enough to get John to rest instead of pacing the sitting room.

After another dose of medication, Sherlock offered tea and Jammie Dodgers, and it wasn't long after that the doctor's eyelids drooped and he leaned heavily against Sherlock.

Once John was asleep, the detective manoeuvred him flat on the cushions and lay beside his uninjured right side. Slipping his arm beneath John's neck in lieu a pillow, he placed one bent knee across John's thighs to keep him safely on the sofa. An arm across the doctor's hips and tucked under his bum completed all safety precautions, even as he ignored his own moderately uncomfortable position at the outer edge of the sofa.

Turning his face toward Sherlock, who pressed a kiss to his forehead, John sighed.

"Sherlock?" John stirred, his voice little more than a breathy whisper.

"I'm here, John."

"Sherlock?"

"Just rest, John. I'll watch over you."

"Stay."

"Always," he promised, holding John's smaller hand to his chest.

"Love...you."

"I love you, too."

"Okay, good."

Sherlock's vision blurred, but he made no effort to halt the tears that brimmed and overflowed. When had he progressed to the point that he hurt when John hurt? Was that sentiment, too?

* * *

It was mid-afternoon when John stirred. Sherlock, who had been watching him sleep for nearly two hours, leaned down to kiss him. "Hello."

John stared without blinking for long moments, but didn't respond. Awareness returned to him in increments, slowly, and with obvious difficulty as Sherlock observed him.

Deep within his Mind Palace, something stirred, reached out to him, warned him, but not that something was wrong, rather, that something wasn't just right.

His first thought was the medication. The second was the attack on John's person and the subsequent injury. Certainly a knife attack with such a severe laceration to his flesh would have a traumatic emotional impact on him. To what degree only time would tell given John's inclination to insist that it was all fine.

Without doubt, Sherlock knew John would again try to hide any emotional upheaval. To John's mind, it was a weakness. That his doctor allowed only Sherlock to witness these moments proved John trusted him.

"John," he whispered, drawing the doctor to him with the seductive resonance of his voice.

Sherlock had never felt so cherished as John studied him as though he were a priceless painting.

"Did you sleep well?"

John shook his head slowly, holding Sherlock's gaze.

"Did you dream?"

John nodded, his eyes narrowed, his mouth downturned.

"Can you tell me?"

"No," he said, his voice raspy, as though sore.

"You don't want to or you don't remember?"

"It's gone."

When Sherlock squeezed his hand, John squeezed back, levelling his blue eyes on him.

"I think it was bad, but not terrifying like...some others I've had."

Sherlock kissed John's nose. "That's good."

"Yeah?"

"Yes, John, it is."

John's eyes became distant, as though he searched for words out of reach. "You just think lovely wonderful thoughts-"

"Sorry?"

"Peter Pan."

"Who?"

"Children's story. J.M. Barrie. Great story, dreadful man. There was a film, _Finding Neverland_ , I think."

Sherlock studied him for a moment longer, peculiarly unable to follow John's thought process. Was this how John felt when left behind as Sherlock's mind went whirling off to gather clues to the mysteries of their cases?

When he snapped back from his thoughts, it was to John's loving gaze, like he'd waited an eternity for a simple answer.

Sherlock's memory quickly supplied him with the necessary response.

"Ah. I might have read it as a child. Or Mycroft read it to me previous to my learning to read at age four."

John smirked. "Age four, huh?"

"Yes, of course. I was a precocious child."

"You still are."

Sherlock smiled, interrupting any further comment with a slide of his finger over John's mouth, followed by an extended, sloppy kiss that the doctor encouraged with soft moans and deep sighs.

"Ah, very well, my dear doctor. As I extricate myself from your person, I would like to know how you are fairing. You look a bit peaky, as Mrs. Hudson noticed as well."

"Yeah, and also a bit peckish."

Sherlock grinned, more than pleased. "Very good. A step in the right direction. More of the stew, takeaway from Angelo's, or toast and jam? Or perhaps some porridge?"

"Something non-spicy. I don't think I'm ready for that yet."

"Was Mrs. Hudson's stew too spicy?"

"No, it's pretty bland. That would be good, I think."

Sherlock nodded. "Would you like to remain on the sofa or, if you aren't in too much pain, accompany me to the kitchen?"

"I need to move, Sherlock. I'm...restless, cross, and I don't want you to have to..."

Sherlock concentrated on getting John upright with a minimum of discomfort. Kissing the top of the doctor's fair head, he framed John's face between his two hands.

"Just be yourself, John. That's all there is to be concerned about. Whatever you say, I promise not to be offended. When you're well again, I will bugger you out of it."

John grinned, breathed as deeply as his body would allow, and took Sherlock's offered hand for the walk to the kitchen.

* * *

John was, it seemed to Sherlock, very close to his normal self as they prepared their dinner. He was determined not to force John to eat, and since Sherlock sometimes skipped meals when on a case, their eat when hungry plan worked well for both of them.

Observing John without being noticed was easy. With his tongue only just visible as he worked, a mannerism Sherlock found appealing on so many levels, John spooned the stew into two bowls. Placing them into the microwave, he pressed the five minute timer, closed the door, and leaned back against the counter.

"All right?"

"Fine."

"Sure?"

John grimaced. "It's painful to take a deep breath just yet, so I'm not getting enough oxygen in my lungs when I'm upright too long. Vertigo, too."

"Come here," Sherlock enticing John into his outstretched arms.

"This is nice."

"The embrace is to calm you. I'm going to turn you round now to come up close against you."

"Are you trying to-" John managed a giggle, then hissed at the pain. "It's becoming a habit."

"As much as that would give us both great pleasure, not at the moment. Rest your head back against me, that's it. I'm going to place my hand...here."

John stiffened in his arms. "What are you doing?"

"Trust me, John," Sherlock whispered as he placed his palm over his belly button.

"Yes, all right, but sometimes that's my first mistake."

"Oh, snap. Now, concentrate. Expand your belly outward against my hand. Begin with small breaths and as you feel comfortable, increase the depth of your breaths. Close your eyes and relax against me."

Several minutes after the microwave chimed, Sherlock removed his hand from John's belly. "Better?"

John turned to lean his head against Sherlock's chest. "Much. Where did you learn to do that? The Internet?"

Sherlock scowled at him. "Nepal. Many years ago."

"Will you tell me about Nepal?"

Cupping John's chin in his hand, Sherlock lifted the doctor's head just enough to deliver a gentle kiss. "There are many things I'll tell you, John, when the time is right, but now, it's time to eat."

They ate in companionable silence until John looked at Sherlock across the table.

"Sherlock?"

It didn't take a genius to deduce that John had something important to say. He'd probably been ruminating during his waking hours, abbreviated though they were.

"Hmm?"

"I'd like to try lengthening the time between the painkillers."

"Oh?"

"I don't like sleeping all the time. I have you here, and I want to spend more time with you. We're always dashing off here and there on cases and we rarely get to talk about...things, us things. This is a perfect time to do that, but if I, we...I lose the...we..." John huffed his obvious annoyance.

"It's fine, John. I don't think an hour will make much difference, but only if you promise you won't ask to skip any and you'll tell me when you're hurting. When we do talk, however, you will have to speak in complete sentences."

John frowned at Sherlock's attempt at humor. "I just don't want to miss anything."

Sherlock smiled at him, reaching across to take his hand. "You won't miss a thing. When you sleep, I'm beside you or nearby. I read or work in my Mind Palace, or most often watch you sleep, so you see, you aren't missing anything."

"I don't want to be a lump on the sofa."

"You aren't a lump of any kind, John Watson, and whinging does little to help your recovery."

"But-"

"No, John. If you think that you're putting an unfair burden on me, think it through. I'm far more likely to be a burden for you than you could ever be for me. So, please, let's just stay calm and enjoy each other's company."

"I've disappointed you."

"No, John, your whinging over something that is meaningless and escalates your stress level is what disappoints _you_. You have yet to disappoint me."

"But-"

Sherlock waved his hand as though swatting a fly. "No more, John. Just stop right there."

Sherlock pushed his chair back and rose, coming round the table to stand before his doctor. Although impatient, he held out his hand, endeavoring to wait until hell froze over for John to respond. John finally took his hand, allowing Sherlock to lead him to his chair in front of the hearth.

Kneeling down beside John, he posed the disgusted look that made Yarders cower, but only made the doctor laugh. John held his hand against his bandage, below his sternum. "Oh, don't make me laugh."

"John Watson, I want you to sit right here and practice your breathing. Press your hand here, now begin. I will do the washing up and then join you for an evening of reading beside the fire."

"Sherlock?"

"No talking, John, just breathing. I won't be long."

Sherlock walked away just a few feet, then returned to loom over the back of the chair. When John looked up at him, he leaned down to deliver a searing kiss that left John breathing hard.

"That's my boy. Just breathe."

* * *

The evening was even more pleasant than the one before. In their respective chairs in front of the fire, they read, John, a nature study, and Sherlock, one of his many forensic journals, while holding hands. Sherlock kept a weather eye on John, making sure he performed the breathing exercises several times.

Late in the evening, as John fought a losing battle with drug- induced sleep, a silent text from Lestrade informed Sherlock that the mystery of the missing Fiat and its owner was now closed and the perpetrator of the unprovoked knife attack on John was in custody. As much as he wanted to believe that it was over, something about it sat heavy on his chest.

John lifted his head from the back of the chair, turning toward Sherlock. "Was that Greg?"

Sherlock forced a smile. "Yes, case closed."

"So he confessed?"

"Yes. Greg said your attacker is, as he so quaintly stated, 'singing like a bird.'"

John nodded, squeezing the detective's hand. "Good."

"Yes, very good," he said, looking away from John to stare into the fire. "Very good." What he couldn't tell John was that his attacker had a partner and he was still out there.

Under the guise of responding to Greg, he sent a text to his brother, whose response was immediate. In less than a minute, the decision was made and the plan was in play. To keep John safe, they'd leave Baker Street.

"John," he began, "how would you feel about getting out of London? With your doctor's permission of course. Mycroft knows of a cottage in Dorset that we could rent for a week or two while you recuperate further. It's a lovely area, lots of trees, a rabbit or two, none glowing, I'm afraid. Mycroft would lend us a car for the drive."

John pursed his lips in his 'what are you not telling me, Sherlock?' expression that the detective knew well.

"Suspicion doesn't suit you, John."

John smiled softly, squeezing his hand. "It's from living with you, love."

"So, yes?"

"Give me a bit of time to think about it?"

John's smile told him all he needed to know. "Of course."

Sherlock faced the fire, but observed John on his periphery. If the tapping on the back door of his Mind Palace was correct, and it nearly always was, leaving London would be the wisest course of action to give Mycroft time to investigate further.

There was often some nefarious criminal looking to make a name for himself by using John as a target to get to Sherlock Holmes. John's injury made him less able to protect himself, therefore a more vulnerable target, an unfortunate consequence of a partnership with the only consulting detective in the world. John was collateral damage, and it was unacceptable, but sometimes unavoidable. Hateful consequence, that.

Sherlock couldn't ignore the knot in the pit of his stomach once it had presented itself. He didn't know where it came from or why, but he knew one undeniable fact. He didn't like not knowing.

* * *

Following their nightly washing up, and again as they walked hand in hand toward their bedroom, it was obvious from John's posture that his pain was acute, that his medication had not begun to ease his pain. Sherlock had no doubt that it would, however, he regretted not insisting that the doctor take it on schedule.

John didn't protest when Sherlock helped him to get comfortable, but there were more than the usual grunts and groans of pain every time he moved. Once flat on his back with the pillow beneath his legs, and holding a death grip on Sherlock's hand, John responded immediately to the detective's voice telling him to breathe. With a hand held gently against his belly as before, Sherlock guided him through the process again until he calmed and the pain eased to a dull ache, then disappeared.

"All right now?"

"Yes."

"I know that it makes you sleep more and feel disconnected, but it's far better than suffering. It won't always be that way, but for now, in these early days, please take the medication as scheduled. You know that to be true, John. It will get better."

John's eyes filled, whether from relief, fatigue, or both wasn't clear, but he swiped at the tears before they had the chance to overflow. One errant tear strayed, streaking down John's cheek to his mouth. Sherlock kissed it away.

"You'll need another dose during the night. I'll fetch them and a glass of water so neither of us has to get up. And I need to secure the hearth and shut the lights."

"Okay."

Sherlock rolled out of bed and padded to the door.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John? Is there something else you need?"

"Just you. Don't be gone too long?"

"No, John. I promise you there is no place I'd rather be than with you."

Sherlock hurried from the room, down the hall and into the kitchen. Leaning against the counter, he retrieved his phone from his pocket. Fingers flying over the keyboard, Sherlock sent a text to the only person who would respond to his unsubstantiated theory with speed and no questions asked.

The response, when it came less than a minute later, was brief and concise.

Understood. Team dispatched. Within the half-hour. Confirm. -MH

Sherlock texted his confirmation that he understood. Pocketing his phone, he shut the lights, secured the doors, and hurried back to John. Slipping beneath the duvet, the detective wriggled close, tucking himself against John's right side, one slim leg resting across the doctor's thighs.

John inclined his head toward him, his sleepy eyes filled with trust and unconditional love.

"Love you."

"Love you, John."

Sherlock leaned over John for a goodnight kiss. "I'll watch over you. Just sleep. If you have a bad dream, I'll wake you. Very carefully."

"Stand across the room and shout at me. No closer."

Sherlock smiled. "I will."

"You need to sleep, too."

"Yes, John."

"Don't worry, Sherlock," John breathed against his cheek as he drifted off. "Mycroft will watch over us."

"Yes."

Long after John's breathing became soft and shallow, Sherlock stared at him in wonder. John might not be a genius, but he continued to surprise the detective with his insight and common sense. No doubt he would do so for the rest of their lives together.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

 **To the Sofa Forthwith**

* * *

John's soft moans reached him in the depths of sleep. Fully awake the moment he opened his eyes, Sherlock pressed his lips against John's ear.

"Breathe," he whispered, holding his hand against the doctor's quivering belly. Replacing his hand with John's for the moment he needed to reach across to the nightstand for the pill bottle, Sherlock tapped two into his hand. Lifting John's head, Sherlock slipped the pills into his mouth, pressing the water glass to his trembling lips.

"I saved some of Mrs. Hudson's nibbles from yesterday," he said while setting a few crisps on John's chest. "You need to have something more in your stomach. Chew on these while I get you a glass of milk."

John stared at him, his eyes glazed and unfocused, while still performing his breathing exercise. "There isn't milk in the fridge."

Sherlock pushed a small crisp into John's mouth before leaving the bed. A single crunch as he reached the door confirmed that his instruction was followed.

When Sherlock returned to the bedside, the sight of John's pinched expression made his heart ache.

"I found straws in the cupboard. I don't recall buying them or what purpose they might have served."

John nodded, but the detective wasn't sure he understood. Holding the glass to the side, he slipped the straw between John's dry lips.

"I have bread with peanut butter. The crisps probably aren't the best for you. I could get you some jam, if you prefer, or toast, perhaps?"

"I...just want...you," John ground out past the pain.

Sherlock smiled. "Idiot."

"Yours."

"Yes."

John tapped the empty milk glass with his finger. "Mrs. Hudson?"

"Of course, Mrs. Hudson. Annoying as always, but with good intentions."

Nearing three, the pain began to subside, much to Sherlock's relief. John sighed, reaching for his hand, holding it to his belly. The detective snuggled in, resting his head against John's shoulder, and pulling the duvet up round them. The doctor continued his pain-relief breathing for several more minutes until he was calm once more.

Sherlock pressed his lips to John's jaw. "You are the bravest man I know."

John patted his hand few times before going still. "Not so brave at the moment. Sometimes this is more painful than when I got shot."

Nuzzling into the small area behind John's ear, Sherlock smiled, as content as he could be under the circumstances. "Brave, nonetheless, my love."

* * *

On day five subsequent to the incident, as they referred to it, John had improved. It was progress toward recovery, and although John seemed less focused than he had the previous day, his pain was better controlled.

As a chemist and John's doctor by proxy-he grinned foolishly at the term-he'd analysed the drug's ingredients to determine it appropriate for John, while making a mental note to phone Dr. Sloane to discuss John's struggle with the drug.

Brought back from his inner thoughts by the scraping of John's spoon against the bowl, Sherlock observed for several silent moments.

John sat at the kitchen table, his breakfast of porridge, toast with jam, and tea just an arm's width from the phials, and assorted detritus from the most recent experiment. Sherlock had simply pushed everything to the end of the table to allow a place for them to eat and to give John a change of scenery.

Disinclined to read during breakfast, John stared at the table as he pushed his food round the bowl. After several minutes, Sherlock curled a hand over John's.

"You need to eat."

The doctor looked up, but not at him, staring at a point on the wall.

"You've convinced me that I need fuel to function properly. You need the same."

John bristled. "I'll eat."

"Sorry, a lecture wasn't my intention."

"It's okay."

"Talk to me, John."

"Not now. I'll eat, I promise," John snapped, with a quick, contrite glance at Sherlock. "Sorry."

"Don't be. It's all right. I understand your frustration."

John nodded, eventually finishing most of his breakfast. Once the last bite of toast was swallowed, he groaned softly, sipping at his tea. At his grimace of the obviously now cold beverage, Sherlock smiled. Averse as he was to wasting perfectly good tea, John emptied the cup anyway, much to Sherlock's amusement.

Carefully turning in his chair, John leaned heavily on the table to lift himself to an upright position. Gathering his breakfast dishes, he padded to the sink. Slowly.

Sherlock didn't interfere. Perhaps feeling useful was what John needed.

"I'll do the washing up."

"May I help?"

John smiled softly. "Yes, please."

Sherlock observed John's countenance as well as his body language as they stood together at the sink. Reaching out with his left hand caused him to wince each time he placed an item into the dish rack. Constantly shifting his weight from one foot to the other was the second indicator that John was forcing himself past the point of comfort, but Sherlock trusted that John was aware of his limits. At least for the next hour.

When the last dish was dried and stored away in the cupboard, John wiped his hands and stood quietly in place for a short time.

"Okay?"

"Brush my teeth and then sit for awhile."

"Good, may I join you?

John nodded.

"Sofa or chair?"

"Sofa, so I can be close to you?"

Sherlock circled his arms round John's shoulders. "Perfect."

Following John to the loo, the detective crowded up against his back as they brushed in tandem, heads together, watching each other in the mirror. John grinned, drooling toothpaste onto his chin, which the detective happily whisked away with a finger flourish.

After cupping water into John's mouth with his hand, Sherlock did the same for himself. An odd look from his doctor was more than enough to force a giggle of his own.

"What?"

"That was...I don't have a word to describe it."

"I was helping you so you didn't have to bend low over the sink."

"Oh," John said, smiling briefly. "Well, thank you for that."

"John," he growled, kissing the doctor's mouth as he twined their fingers together. "To the sofa, forthwith."

"Lead on, my love."

For the moment, John's return from the dark side of his pain, lifted Sherlock's spirits. He wasn't at all certain it would last longer than the length of time until the next dosage, but he determined that those moments be special.

"I have an idea, John."

"Another one? Not more peas?"

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. "Would you like to lie on the sofa with your head in my lap?

"That sounds...oh, God, yes."

Pleased with John's immediate response, Sherlock sat at the end of the sofa, so that when John lay down, he'd face the window. John sat next to him for several moments before holding his breath against the pain that would strike when he manoeuvred himself to lie down. Sherlock rested one palm against the area of John's wound that would be likely to cause him the most pain, exerting gentle pressure, and his other hand beneath his head.

"Breathe, John."

"Ooooo-kay. And...down on three."

"One," said Sherlock.

"Two," said John.

"Three," they said together.

Adjusting his hips just enough to lie flat, John pulled in a breath and blew it out with a huff.

With one hand tangled in John's short, fair hair, and the other on his belly, Sherlock waited for his doctor to calm himself.

"I'm okay, now," John said a few minutes later.

"Hush for a little longer."

"Okay."

"Just look out the window."

"And see what, the buildings across Baker Street where a gas explosion that wasn't an accidental gas explosion at all once blew out our windows with you standing nearby?"

"Deleted, John," he lied.

John giggled. "I'll be quiet."

"That's my John."

Nearly thirty minutes passed before Sherlock moved the fingers that had rested on John's belly to curl round his hand. When he held the short, sturdy fingers to his lips, the doctor lifted his blue eyes to gaze at him with a soft smile.

There was no need for words; the comforting silence was enough.

Sherlock stroked his fingertips along his doctor's jaw and into the fine hair behind his ear. John shivered, his eyes fluttering closed.

"I won't let you sleep for more than an hour. We can hold hands and walk round the sitting room when you wake."

The tip of John's tongue darted out as a tiny smile touched his lips once more. Sherlock loved that little gesture. Sherlock Holmes loved his doctor.

* * *

John slept deeply with only an occasional twitching of the hand held safely in the curl of Sherlock's long, graceful fingers. Oblivious to anything outside his slumber, the detective's kiss to his fingertips went unnoticed.

Sherlock passed the hour adoring every centimeter of John's face.

He'd been remiss these last few days. So busy had he been caring for John, he'd not set aside more than a few moments of simple observation until now. It filled up another small space in his Mind Palace room dedicated to John Watson.

At the end of an hour, Sherlock waited a few minutes longer before waking John. Tenderly tracing his doctor's mouth with his fingertip elicited a soft sigh. As Sherlock watched him wake slowly, he remembered that John always said it was the little gestures that were most important to him. Sherlock understood now what his doctor had tried to explain. When John's eyes opened, once, twice, three times, before coming to rest on him, Sherlock cradled his fair head with his hand, holding it fast against his ribs.

"Welcome back," Sherlock whispered, smiling down at him.

John smiled back, his sleepy gaze warming Sherlock to his toes.

"Pain?"

"Sharp twinges."

"Peas?"

"No."

"Sure?"

"Yes. What time is it?"

"Just after eight."

"How long?"

"An hour."

"Okay."

"Would you like to walk now?"

"I think I need to breathe."

"All right. Your hand or mine, John?"

"Yours, if that's okay?"

"John, you know that touching you is one of my favorite-"

"Yes, I know that very well."

Sherlock laughed deep in his throat as he released the hand that he'd been holding for more than an hour and rested his free hand on John's belly.

"I like it when you do that."

"I suspected you did. When you do it yourself, your discomfort takes longer to dissipate and returns sooner."

"Nope, you have magical hands," John said with a shy smile.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "I don't think anyone has ever made that observation regarding my hands."

"Oh, you definitely have magical hands, Sherlock."

Sherlock grinned wickedly. "Do go on."

John turned his head into the detective's ribs, placing an exaggerated kiss to the front of his rumpled T-shirt.

Sherlock's hand on John's belly was the key to the cessation of his pain in the waning hours of the medication's efficacy, and their silly conversation was a pleasant diversion for both of them.

When John decided he needed to move about and visit the loo, Sherlock supported his head and neck as he struggled to sit up. Surprisingly, he didn't groan, but breathed heavily until his discomfort gradually eased. Sherlock counted it a small victory.

While John shuffled to the loo, Sherlock made his phone call. It was brief, just long enough to update Dr. Sloane regarding John's reaction to the medication. Although the two men agreed to continue the same course for at least another few days and then gradually decrease the dosage, Sherlock had already decided not to tell John to avoid the argument his doctor would surely raise to discontinue it altogether.

As he turned off his phone and left it on the table, John's slightly panicked voice calling his name reached him from the loo.

"John?"

With several long strides, Sherlock met John at the door. The doctor looked up at him, wide-eyed and breathing heavily.

"What's wrong?"

"I tried to change the bandage, but it's stuck to the stitches. I think I tore one. It's bleeding, but I can't see."

With hands firmly on John's shoulders, Sherlock guided him back into the loo and sat him on the toilet seat.

"Let's have a look."

"I'm a doctor, Sherlock. I know what to look for. There may be an infection. I don't want to go back to hospital."

"Easy, John, stay calm. I'm sure it's not going to require a trip to A&E. Hold your T-shirt up. Your dressing needed to be changed anyway, so we'll do it now."

John's disquiet, given his medical experience, was beyond what normally would be expected for his discovery of a possibly pulled stitch or a minor infection. Something about John's disproportionate fear bothered him, but he couldn't point to which of two possibilities he had in mind.

Sherlock had been especially diligent about disinfecting John's laceration and changing the dressing often. There was little reason to suspect that anything was out of the ordinary. He

was proven correct moments later when he peeled back the gauze to find healthy tissue and no torn stitches or infection. John had irritated a stitch, resulting in a small spot of blood, but that was easily cleared away with a disinfectant wipe from their first aid kit.

When John's trembling caught his attention. Sherlock reached for his hands, holding them firmly.

"John. Everything is fine, as expected. There's a small amount of blood, but nothing serious. You're worrying needlessly."

"Oh."

"Yes, oh."

"I'm an idiot."

"No," said, leaning forward to distract John with a kiss.

"You're okay. Do relax, John. I'm taking very good care of you, as I promised. You're doing fine. So well, in fact we can disinfect the rest of your wound, change your shirt and leave off the bandage until later. Air it out, if you will."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. Is that all right with you?"

"Yes. Sorry. I'm being pathetic and panicking again."

"Just a bit paranoid. No apology necessary."

John's frown was laced with a tiny smile, so Sherlock kissed him again.

John grinned wide, his blue eyes sparkling.

"When you are vulnerable John, I love you more."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

 **U.M.Q.R.A.**

* * *

Their journey began at John's chair, continued round the tiny kitchen to the landing, the sitting room, past the sofa, and repeat. It was a pleasant, leisurely hand in hand stroll without incident. John smiled often, glancing away as if to hide his amusement.

Sherlock observed each little quirk of the good doctor's lips, felt the tiny squeezes of his hand, and the hitch in his breathing when Sherlock caressed his fingers.

It was the tightening of John's hand in his that signaled the end of their walk. The detective guided him to his comfortable chair, settling him into it.

"Too much?"

"No, just enough. Sherlock?"

Sherlock gazed at John's pale face. "Tell me."

John averted his gaze as though ashamed. "I feel… I'm not sure what I feel."

Alarmed, and not certain what John tried to express, Sherlock dropped to his knees, wriggling between the doctor's knees to be as close as possible. "How so?"

"The pills are clouding my mind, I think. When I wake up my head is foggy. I don't remember very well." John closed his eyes and shook his head. "It's like I'm disconnected from everything, from you. And it's getting worse the longer I take them."

"You aren't disconnected from me, John. I'll be here, I'll hold your hand whenever you feel that way, so you know you aren't alone. It's good that you're telling me instead of hiding how you feel."

Sherlock kissed the corner of John's mouth. "I believe the pills are the cause of your heightened emotions as well and I'm certain that will pass when you can safely lessen the dosage. John, I promise you. You'll be harassing me again soon."

John swiped at his eyes and sighed. "I don't deserve you."

Sherlock grinned wickedly. "Be that as it may, you're stuck with me for the rest of your life because I'm not letting you go. Not ever again. I will love you forever."

Despite his continuous assurances that John's whinging was not an annoyance to him, Sherlock suspected the doctor doubted his sincerity. John didn't suffer unnecessary whinging from Sherlock, therefore, when originating from himself, it was only natural that John would be less accepting of his own. Sherlock's decision to continue to reassure him until the need for the pills ended felt like the right one.

When John withdrew deeper into himself as the day worn on, the detective set his mind once again to the task of finding ways to distract him, other than kissing, or course, because that would inevitably lead to other things of which John was not yet physically capable. Devising a plan, however, did little to diminish his concern.

A nature program on the telly featuring camels held John's interest, but bored Sherlock to the limit of his patience. He endured to the end credits by observing John's enjoyment of the nasty, ill-tempered, spitting creatures.

The following program about giraffes held John's interest for less than fifteen minutes. His head drooped to the side, gradually settling on Sherlock's shoulder. Resting his cheek on the top of John's head, he allowed John a few minutes kip before he was due for another stroll. He should have let him sleep. Dr. Grumpy was not a pleasant companion. Ah, hindsight. Hateful.

* * *

Their midday meal was small, neither was very hungry, so toast with jam and tea was the solution. With little or no exercise other than walking round the flat, there was no chance of building an appetite for either of them. Sherlock had just finished the washing up when footsteps on the stairs alerted him.

"Yoohoo," Mrs. Hudson called from the lower landing, announcing that the post had been delivered. A handful of bills was all Sherlock got for rushing down to meet her.

A short conversation ensued when Mrs. Hudson asked after John. After assuring her he was recovering well, Sherlock returned to the flat to find John standing at the window overlooking Baker Street. He'd thought John might find the energy to look at the mail, but discarded the idea, knifing the envelopes to the mantel for later.

"Mycroft must have some new people working for him. They aren't very stealthy. I spotted them right away."

Sherlock recognised the melancholy in the doctor's speech and posture. Joining him at the window, his hands resting on John's hips, Sherlock tucked the doctor's head beneath his chin.

"Or you're more observant that you once were."

John grunted softly. Sherlock was relieved when John let the matter drop, but Dr. Grumpy still had a presence in the room.

There was no easy way to announce that it was time for more pills.

"John."

John's shoulders slumped beneath Sherlock's touch. "Not now, Sherlock. Later."

"John."

"I know. The longer I wait the more the pain takes hold and when I really need it-"

Sherlock inhaled deeply, but remained silent, letting John decide and hopefully come to the best conclusion for himself.

"It's quiet right now. Thirty minutes? Please?"

"Very well. Thirty minutes, then we re-evaluate the level of pain. Agreed?"

"Yes, all right."

"Would you like to play a fast game of-"

"No, Sherlock. Not Cluedo. Absolutely out of the question. Nor Operation."

John turned to face him, lifting his eyebrows in a silent request. Sherlock grinned, touching their foreheads together.

John's eyes fluttered closed when kissed on the tip of his nose. For the moment, it seemed, Dr. Grumpy was a bit...not so grumpy.

In anticipation, Sherlock brought a glass of water, a few biscuits and the dreaded pills to the small table between the two chairs that remained in front of the hearth.

Although in an awkward position, Sherlock knelt in front of John, dropped his head onto John's lap and waited. For a moment he thought John wouldn't respond, that the pain he so obviously endured would supersede his former need to touch, but then his sturdy fingers found their way into his curls, and it was gloriously intimate. For a few minutes, they were okay.

The world's only consulting detective heard the moment his wounded soldier reached his limit. John groaned, dropping his head back against the cushion and fisted his hands in Sherlock's dark curls.

"I...think...now," he whispered through gritted teeth. "Shite."

"Okay, John."

"If I take them now, promise you'll help me stay awake?"

"Of course. Whatever you need."

"I don't want to miss any more time with you."

John's words struck him deep in his gut, stealing away any verbal comfort he might offer.

John took the two pills offered, swallowed them with a gulp of water and followed them with the biscuits still on the table beside his chair.

"I've ordered dinner from Angelo's. He was happy to prepare penne pasta with a very mild Alfredo sauce, no garlic, guaranteed not to upset your stomach. Dinner will be delivered promptly at seven. Until then, I'll keep you comfortable and read to you without complaint from a despicable novel of your choice.

"An improbable vow, but, thank you," John said while chewing the last bite of the biscuit. Then, with a hand to his belly, John eased himself out of the chair, and moved slowly toward the loo.

"Those pills probably cause all my extra visits to the toilet," John grumbled.

Sherlock followed, discreetly, silently, to wait beside the door.

"I know you're there, Sherlock. I'm okay, really."

"I want to be near if you need me," he called out, aware at once that the door stood slightly ajar. He smiled. John could have closed and locked the door.

When John didn't respond, Sherlock peeked round the edge of the door.

"You're hovering."

Sherlock frowned, pouted and was just about to sulk when John opened the door wide, a half-smile, half-grimace creeping along his lips.

"I love you, my mad consulting detective."

"Not as much as I love you, my captain."

Tipping his head and glaring, but lovingly, John pursed his lips for a kiss. Sherlock obliged, delighted.

"What will I ever do with you?"

"Keep me?" he countered in his best little boy's voice.

"God help me, Sherlock Holmes, you are a keeper."

"Yes!" Sherlock shouted, throwing his fist into the air above his head.

"And quite childlike."

Sherlock brought forth his confused look, a pose he knew John would see through. "A bit not good?"

"No, very good. Very good, indeed."

"Ah, very well, then."

"I need to sit down."

The detective placed his hand at the small of John's back as a gentle guide. "Right this way, I have the perfect place for you."

John sat in his chair while Sherlock set the fire. It caught quickly, a warm glow casting dancing shadows on the walls in the waning daylight, but he was more captivated by the flickering light on John's handsome face. Whoever invented fire should receive some sort of award, Sherlock thought, enjoying his own silly joke.

"The firelight is enough, yes?"

John glanced his way, his blue eyes sparkling through his fatigue for a breathtaking moment. "Just enough to see you, my love."

Sherlock grinned, dropping into his chair and leaning over to steal a kiss. "You tempt me, John Watson."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. Have I told you today how much I love you?"

"I don't feel very lovable."

"Oh, but you are, believe me."

"I think we sound like a couple of adolescents."

"I want to snog you now. For science, of course, and just because."

John giggled, holding his belly. "That was definitely adolescent."

Sherlock's delight at seeing a lighthearted John was diminished somewhat by the reminder of the wild mood swings he suspected were caused by the medication. John was an emotional man who allowed very few to know his heart. That John allowed him to know was a privilege Sherlock refused to take for granted. After a long, difficult process for both of them, John's trust was not something he'd ever take for granted again.

For no particular reason other than he wanted to, Sherlock made good his statement by not just kissing John, but ravaging his sexy, glorious mouth.

John didn't protest at being so thoroughly kissed, he encouraged it by holding fast to the curls at the back of Sherlock's head, eliciting a deep-throated moan.

Breathless and giddy as they broke apart, it was several minutes before they brought themselves under control, sitting quietly, holding hands and staring into the fire.

* * *

As the time of their dinner delivery drew near, John groaned and struggled to his feet. Before Sherlock could react, John carefully crawled onto his lap, hung his legs over the arm of the chair and laid his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Okay?"

"Yes. For now, the pain is gone. If I don't move, I'll be good until Angelo arrives."

Kissing John's forehead and wrapping his arms round him, Sherlock couldn't imagine anything more satisfying than this small moment, until John nuzzled against his neck.

Sometime later, neither knowing how long, John glanced at Sherlock's watch. "Angelo will be here shortly. Help me up?"

"Mrs. Hudson will answer the door."

"Yes, but I don't want to hear Angelo's...whatever it is he says when he sees us."

Sherlock said nothing as he helped John to his feet and watched him disappear into the bedroom.

At one minute before seven, Mrs. Hudson answered the front door, followed by Angelo's voice thundering in the hall. Sherlock met the man at the door to the flat, guiding him to the table in the sitting room rather than the kitchen. As always, Angelo hugged Sherlock, greeting him like a long lost relative.

"John isn't here?"

"He's resting."

"Ah, please give him my regards."

"I will."

Angelo prepared the table in the sitting room, including a candle, as though they were at the restaurant.

"Don't wait too long to eat. It will get cold and warming it in the microwave destroys all the flavor."

"Thank you Angelo," Sherlock acknowledged, handing over several notes.

The older man raised his hands, refusing to take payment. "For you, it is always on the house. I can't accept your money."

Angelo departed as quickly as he had arrived. As soon as the front door closed, Sherlock rescued John from the bedroom where he sat on the edge of the bed.

"He's gone. Let's eat while it's still hot."

"Okay."

Sherlock took his hand as they walked to the sitting room. "Ta da," he sang, gesturing to the table with fluttering fingers.

"A candle and everything," John commented.

"With wine and sitting," Sherlock added with a grin, recalling a long ago comment John had made, but a comment that John either ignored or didn't want to remember. It was a case gone wrong; he couldn't blame John if he blocked the memory.

John slowly slid into the chair, watching while Sherlock served the pasta and Alfredo sauce on the still warm plates. Setting the wine aside for another time, and substituting water, Sherlock settled next to John instead of opposite.

John ate in small amounts, chewing carefully, Sherlock noticed, perhaps fearful of choking.

"Okay?"

John nodded, but he seemed confused, disconnected, but not quite...there. Responsive, but painfully slow to do so. Closer observance was needed.

"John?"

The doctor closed his eyes for a moment, as though to collect himself, then began to eat again. Sherlock hadn't given him a lot to eat, less than half his normal portion. He hoped John would be able to finish most of it.

He'd puzzled the consequences of reducing John's dosage by one quarter to prove or disprove his theory that it could very well be the medication that contributed to his mood swings. As a chemist, and a former addict, he was aware of the effects of certain drugs, especially those prescribed to reduce pain and inflammation. Whether John was susceptible, remained to be seen.

The sound of the water glass striking the table brought Sherlock's attention back to John simply staring at the water as it made its way to the edge of the table. Dropping his napkin over the spill, Sherlock tore off a small piece of garlic bread, folding John's fingers round it. The distraction worked. John focused on the bread, which quickly disappeared into his mouth, and ignored the cleanup.

When Sherlock gathered the dishes and cutlery to bring to the kitchen, John stood slowly and followed, carrying the basket of bread. He stayed by Sherlock's side for the washing up, and although his breath hitched when he reached toward the cupboard above the counter, he didn't retreat.

"That's a good job done, John. I feel a chill, let's have another fire."

They'd had more fires in the last week than they'd had since becoming flatmates. It was a practice Sherlock intended to continue for the ambience as much as the seduction of one John Hamish Watson.

"All right."

"Come into my sitting room, said the spider to the fly," Sherlock whispered into John's ear, taking his hand to lead him to their respective chairs.

"Okay."

"Are you?" Sherlock asked to determine the doctor's level of awareness and his ability to follow a vague line of thought.

John gave him a brief glance as he eased himself into the chair. "What?"

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Sherlock, really."

John Watson was a bad liar, a fact that was known to everyone who knew John well.

Except Anderson. Although Sherlock's overall perception of the man had softened somewhat, enough to allow him into his Mind Palace, he still thought him incompetent. Sherlock smirked at the sudden deviation of his thoughts.

"I'm not fine, Sherlock."

Turning away from the hearth where he'd just touched a match to the kindling and replaced the fireplace screen, he crouched beside John's chair, taking one of his hands in his own.

Chin on his chest, John sighed and shook his head slowly side to side, a mannerism not unfamiliar when he was frustrated.

Curling one long finger beneath John's downturned chin, he lifted the doctor's heavy head. "Tell me."

"I need the pills for the pain, at least for a few more days, but I can't think, I mean, I can think, but it's all jumbled up."

"Disjointed?"

"Yes, and the paranoia."

Concerned, Sherlock squeezed John's hand to comfort him, but touching the doctor didn't relieve his own uneasiness.

"Explain?" Sherlock kept his voice neutral, while his mind raced ahead searching for a solution.

"Just before the pain returns, and I have to take more pills, I have a clarity that scares me. I remember seeing Mycroft's people outside the window overlooking Baker Street, and I know that we're safe, but something's not right, something is bearing down on us. I don't know what it is."

Holding fast to the doctor's hand, Sherlock waited for John to gather his thoughts to continue.

Deep breath.

"I think it has something to do with our last case, the one we just solved, or think we solved, but it may not be? That came out stupid. My mind is all messed up again, Sherlock."

John's watery blue eyes looked back at him with such deep despair that he had no words adequate to address the doctor's emotional distress.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"Please tell me I'm not crazy. When I saw Mycroft's people outside, one of them looked familiar. And I don't remember you telling me that you'd asked for protection." John stared at him.

"You didn't tell me, did you?"

Sherlock smiled sadly, pressing his mouth to John's just as a tear slipped free. "I didn't want to worry you.

When he pulled back, John reached for his wrist, pulling him in again.

"Please tell me I'm not crazy, Sherlock," John begged against his shoulder. "The man I saw out on Baker Street died in Afghanistan."

"John."

"Don't lie, Sherlock. I need to know. If the pills are causing me to hallucinate, I want to stop them, or at least cut the dosage."

"John," Sherlock said, holding his hand tighter.

"It's me, isn't it? I'm finally losing my sanity. Just when everything was going so well."

"John. John. Stop. Listen to me."

"Please, help me. I'm really scared."

"You are not going crazy. You're hurting, and you're afraid. I believe the pills are the culprit, and we can cut the dose as your pain recedes and you heal a bit more."

"Are you sure?"

"I can't be totally certain until we test it, but that is my theory...and-"

"And?"

"You are not wrong about something going on. I texted Mycroft to have a team in the vicinity on a just in case basis. It's one of those feelings you always talk about, John. Nothing you can point to, you just sense that something isn't right."

"Exactly."

"I think you are rubbing off on me, John."

John's eyes widened, darting everywhere but Sherlock's face. "I was so sure he was real, out there, but he died. This is hateful, Sherlock."

"I promise you, you're not crazy, however, as much as I would like to, I don't recommend eliminating the pills suddenly, or immediately."

John covered his face with his hands. "I can't do this."

"You can, John. I know you can. Another few days. Soon. Just not today."

"Bugger."

"And, I believe, John Watson, you are back with me."

"It comes and goes. It scares me because sometimes you don't seem real."

"Ah, a lesson learned from past experience, I suppose."

John tipped his head and rolled his eyes, a gentle reproach that was so familiar. One that Sherlock coveted as a sign of his love.

"I dreamed a lot about you when you were dead. You were distorted but still very real to me. I think I didn't really believe you were dead."

It was an odd turn in the conversation that Sherlock didn't quite follow.

"I'm getting the same sensations when I dream now. I don't always remember my dreams, but the ones I do remember are about you and more like memories, even though I know most of them never happened. These are very similar, but I don't think they're memories. They're more like...premonitions? Whatever those are supposed to be. I don't know, Sherlock."

"John, I'm not quite sure where you're going with this."

"I'm not sure I either, but we both know I'm not the most observant person. I'm more-"

"My conductor of light." Sherlock grinned.

"Again, not the most observant-"

"My blogger?"

John shrugged. "Maybe."

Annoyed with himself for failing to pull John from his doldrums, he paused a moment before delivering the response that never failed.

"You are mine, my heart, my conscience, the part of me that I never knew was missing until you gave it back to me. Never doubt that."

Suddenly John pulled away from Sherlock, pushing himself to his feet. He strode to the window, peering out between the drapery panels while barely touching them. John was agitated more than could be justified for the situation.

"There's something more going on here, Sherlock. This case is not over, not solved. I don't know how or why I feel this way. When you were dead, I thought I was in denial, but some part of me, something deep inside, kept telling me you were alive. I knew you weren't dead, but I couldn't prove it and I had not a clue where to look. You were gone for so long, I was sure I was going crazy. Now, I just know this is not over."

Sherlock joined the doctor at the window, standing behind him with his arms round John's waist. Baker Street appeared as normal as ever, but he knew Mycroft had eyes and ears everywhere and the CCTV cameras were trained on the building as well.

John's premonition, for lack of a more appropriate word, couldn't be dismissed. Sherlock did not believe in premonitions, but John Watson's gut was spot on more often than not. Simply because it was John's sense of something not just right, he had to put credence to it. At the moment, there were too many variables at play to eliminate any possibility.

"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth," John recited in a voice much deeper than usual.

Sherlock stepped to the side to turn John toward him, keeping his hands firmly on John's shoulders.

"Let's close the draperies, shall we, John? Mycroft's team will keep watch out there so we can have our privacy."

With his best show of nonchalance, Sherlock closed both the flat doors off the landing, sliding home the bolts he'd had installed one afternoon when John was out on a Tesco run. He felt the doctor's eyes follow him from the center of the sitting room.

"So you think there's something to my...whatever they are?"

Turning from the door, he approached, circling his arms round John's waist.

"Dr. Watson, I would be a fool to discount your feelings. You have rarely, if ever, led me astray. Although I recall there was one time in Dartmoor-"

"Hm? Oh, no, as I recall I gave you U.M.Q.R.A. which led you to

H.O.U.N.D."

"Quite right, John. My apologies."

John cleared his throat against the detective's shoulder, holding a hand to his chest when his giggling caused pain.

"Sorry, John."

"We both get silly when we're tired."

Sherlock hummed.

John lifted his head to look up at him. "So, South Coast, by week's end?"

Sherlock regarded John carefully. "If all goes well and your doctor gives his permission when we consult with him on Thursday morning."

John's mouth twisted into a smile. "And does Mycroft know about your plans?"

"He will soon enough. He's going to be our ride, but he doesn't yet know that either."

"I'm feeling a bit uncomfortable, love. Do we have any more of those waterproof bandages?" John asked, taking Sherlock's hand and leading him toward the bath."

"I believe so, and I would be willing to join you, tend to your bandages, hold your belly as you breathe, and feed you pudding cake before your last dose of the day."

John stopped at the door and turned back to kiss Sherlock full on the mouth.

"What you said earlier? Telling me I'm not crazy?" Another kiss.

"I love you, too."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

 **Lost Time**

John fell into a fitful sleep. The latest dose hadn't completely relieved his pain, but moved it into the realm of an annoying ache with occasional sharp jabs. When he startled awake, the nerves firing along the edges of the laceration would not quiet, but for the first time in what seemed like forever, his head wasn't fog-bound, but oddly empty. As his brain came online, his first clear thought was that in three days he'd see the doctor and to begin-with hope-weaning himself off the pills.

Determined not to wake Sherlock, even though he suspected the blue-green-gray eyes were already observing him, John kept his eyes closed and remained as still as his pain would allow. Breathing as Sherlock had taught him, excluding his hand to his belly-Sherlock held that hand captive within his own-he turned his head away as though still asleep, and stared at the sliver of light escaping from the loo where the door stood ajar.

A sudden twitch of his leg because of the sharp jab of a nerve centered in the deepest penetration of the wound apparently alerted Sherlock to his discomfort. The detective shifted closer, pressing a warm hand to his belly, this time applying more pressure than previous times.

Ashamed at the barely constrained moans that escaped his throat, John bit his lip to bury them. He was a doctor, an army doctor, for God's sake, he'd been shot...why was he so pathetic?

"It's okay, John, relax into it. It will pass. It will get better, I promise," Sherlock whispered against his ear, kissing along the edge, behind and below. "Breathe. That's all you have to do. I'll do the rest."

It wasn't long before the relief Sherlock promised rolled over him and allowed him to drift back toward sleep.

"Love you, Sherlock."

"I love you, John. Always."

* * *

When he woke the second time, wrapped snuggly in his Sherlock cocoon, and, surprisingly pain free for the first time in six days... _was it six days?_ Although his head was fairly clear, the memories of his drug-induced days were still clouded and disjointed.

John grinned as he remembered the day just past. It had been a quiet day, light eating, reading, sitting together, talking about nothing in particular, neither of them wanting to discuss John's feelings about something not right. And kissing. Lots of kissing that had an immeasurable calming effect. Sherlock had been silly and accommodating, making it an almost perfect day.

When John left his thoughts behind, Sherlock's hand still lay on his belly, a slight pressure that was both welcome and intimate because of Sherlock's long fingers tucked beneath the waistband of his pyjama bottoms.

"How are you feeling this morning?"

John smiled. Sherlock was awake, observing, gathering data, cataloguing. Yes, of course he was, that was what consulting detectives do.

"Better. I think I'll be able to get by on a lower dose. Maybe we could try it?"

Sherlock nodded against his head. "If all goes well when you visit your doctor tomorrow, I think that would be a possibility worth pursuing."

John stared at Sherlock. "Tomorrow? We see the doctor tomorrow?"

Sherlock nibbled at his earlobe. "Mm, delicious."

* * *

John awoke with the knowledge of the lost day hovering over his shoulder. The thought, like the slice of a knife, sent a shudder through his not fully awake body. It was as if he were drowning, struggling to break the surface, fighting to breathe when there was no air left.

He slowly became aware of soft breaths against his cheek, long arms curled round his waist, a leg bent across his thighs. Had he fallen back to sleep? Through slitted lids he tried to determine the time by the light from the window, but his traitorous mind refused to obey. In the end, he trusted Sherlock to have the answer, but in the interim, how many days was he missing now?

Contemplating the pain-free moment for however long it lasted, he let his thoughts drift away from the missing hours and his fear until at last they settled on the man he knew so well. The man who surrounded him and loved him more than he deserved, and looked past all his...stuff.

He'd long ago discarded Sherlock's declarative label of sociopath, or any other unkind descriptive thoughtlessly hurled at the detective by those who made no effort to know him. As any other, Sherlock Holmes was just a man, flawed in extraordinary ways, who, despite his statements to the contrary, desperately wanted and needed to be loved.

Even now, years later, he often wondered about all the events that had to line up for him to cross paths with Sherlock. Fate, destiny, coincidence, serendipity, there were any number of words to consider. John remembered again Mycroft's words that "the universe is rarely so lazy." While Sherlock understood his brother's cryptic nonsense, John no longer felt the need to understand. Ignoring it made more sense.

It no longer mattered how it happened, only that it had brought them together. Smiling at the thought, he turned his head slowly and just enough to gaze at Sherlock's face.

Pale blue eyes framed by impossibly long lashes gazed back at him. "What are you thinking, John?"

"You don't know?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, burrowing against John's neck, kissing his jaw.

"You know my methods, Dr. Watson. I extrapolate facts. I am not known to be clairvoyant or that equally abhorrent term, psychic."

John grinned wickedly. "I've always thought of you as more of a...erm...an oracle?"

For a moment Sherlock just stared at him. Slowly, his stunned expression softened into a tiny smile. His deep voice bubbled in his chest, issuing forth like a dragon, were a dragon able to protest the description.

"Excuse me?"

"My own personal oracle."

"What does an oracle _do,_ John?"

"Well," John paused, gazing back at Sherlock while he pondered the question. "I don't know."

"Does an oracle require a conductor of light?"

John smiled brightly. "Haven't the slightest. You're the genius."

"Very well, John. I'm not conversant in oracle, so I will make a mental note to research at a later time, but right now, we need to be up and about, shower, eat, etcetera, etcetera."

"Five more minutes, Sherlock? Please?"

Sherlock glanced at the clock. "Ten, but no more."

A half hour later, Sherlock groaned. "John?"

"Hm?"

"It's time."

John sighed. "Yes, yes, all right."

Sherlock released him, rolled off his side of the bed. "Do you need help?"

"No."

"Any pain?"

"Some."

"Level of pain?"

"Two at the moment, maybe more when I get up."

As Sherlock had, John rolled to the side and sat on the edge of the bed. Minor jabs let him know his wound didn't like being moved about, but he breathed deeply, pleased that for the moment at least, the pain was manageable.

At Sherlock's insistence, they showered together. Once towel dried, Sherlock removed the waterproof cover from John's well-loved chest, replacing the underlying bandage with a fresh one. John allowed it without protest.

"It looks much better, John. Less angry. Definite signs of healing. I think your doctor will be pleased."

"Sherlock, I'd like to reduce the pills whenever you stop putting me off. And when are we going to see Dr. Sloane?"

"All right, but when we get home. A cab ride will be stressful for your body. We should discuss it with your doctor before cutting the dosage. "And, yes, I know you are a doctor and you have the right to change it, but I, Sherlock Holmes, am caring for you and-what?"

John smiled at Sherlock's attention to his care. For today, he was happy to let the detective take charge. He took Sherlock's hand as they walked to the kitchen. "Always your way."

"What?"

"Nothing. You didn't answer my question, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked at him, concern prompting that little rumple between his brows. "Today, John, about ninety minutes from now."

John pressed his lips together in a straight line before answering. "Oh. I think I've lost...never mind."

Breakfast tasted like dry paper. He blamed the pills again. Even the jam and toast he looked forward to each morning tasted like...nothing. After struggling through enough to keep Sherlock appeased, he pushed the rest away.

Sent off to brush his teeth, he paused at the door to listen to Sherlock's soft humming as he rinsed the dishes and set them in the sink. This thoughtful, domestic detective was different, disconcerting. John grimaced and shook his head at all the 'd' words he'd just strung together.

He had to admit it was pleasant, but it wouldn't last. As soon as he was healed, Sherlock would default to his former self, but for now, he enjoyed this helpful, attentive, Sherlock. He loved the man no matter which version presented himself, and that was enough.

What to do about the lost time was what he ruminated about as they descended the stairs slowly, side by side, Sherlock's fingers firmly round his arm. Mrs. Hudson popped out of her flat as they reached the last step, her smile chasing away his concern, if only for the moment. It lurked in the shadows no matter what happened to create a temporary diversion.

"John, how are you? Oh, you look so much better. Not so peaky as before."

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson."

"Sherlock gave me twice-daily reports so I wouldn't worry."

"He's been a conscientious caregiver this last week. I don't know what I would have done without him."

When John looked up, the detective's barely there smile spoke volumes. He knew that inside, Sherlock displayed like a proud peacock.

At the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock took John's hand and guided him toward the door.

"We're off to the clinic to see John's doctor. A good report is expected, Mrs. Hudson. I'll inform you when we return."

"Thank you, Sherlock. Best of luck to you, John," she said, kissing his cheek.

When Sherlock frowned, she hugged him, patted his cheek and shooed them out the door with a cheeky grin.

On the pavement, John waited just a brief moment while Sherlock hailed a cab. The black cab pulled up to the kerb, John struggled in and they were on their way.

Settled in the seat, Sherlock reached across to fasten John's seatbelt before his own.

John shielded his mouth with his hand just enough so he wouldn't be overheard by the cabbie. "Thanks, darling."

Sherlock stared ahead, but John saw the detective's smile in the reflection of the window.

"You're so good to me, love."

John knew that Sherlock was aware of what he was up to by the smile on his face. When the doctor reached for the hand that rested on the seat between them, Sherlock turned to him.

"You are an incorrigible man when it comes to your affection."

John lifted his chin, pasted a smirk on his face and stared forward. "Damn straight."

"Oh, go on, sweetheart." Sherlock grinned at him and winked.

They were both giggling like little boys when the cabbie pulled up to the private clinic Mycroft had insisted they patronise.

John departed the cab carefully, his pain on the rise as the pills had not been in his system long enough. It was a dull ache, reminiscent of the healing pain of his shoulder, but it still had the potential to explode into excruciating pain when least expected.

Sherlock took his hand as they approached the entrance, stopping mid-stride to glance at him.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, why?"

"You're gripping my hand tightly enough to cut off circulation. Are you in pain?"

"A bit."

"How much is that bit?"

"I'm fine, Sherlock, really."

"John, don't deflect."

"I'm not. Today, at this moment, less than a gunshot to the shoulder?"

Sherlock just stared at him, silent, his frown communicating his displeasure.

"Sorry."

"It's all right, John. I prefer to know when you are in pain so that I don't unintentionally irritate you."

John bit back a retort that would only escalate the tension.

"Let's just go inside, please?"

"Very well, but going forward you will keep me informed. You haven't been very faithful to your previous promises to keep me informed of your level of pain."

"Yes, commander. That's commander with a small ' _c_.'"

"Idiot," Sherlock whispered, inclining his head to steal a kiss.

"Twit."

"We don't need to see that," came the snide response to their kiss.

John expected Sherlock to ignore it as he usually did. Instead, the detective turned to the unkempt, obviously inebriated man stumbling away from them.

"Fuck off," Sherlock called over his shoulder as they mounted the stairs.

John was still in a state of shock, and suppressing a laugh when they stepped inside the clinic doors. A hand pressed to his belly did little to help, but it felt so good to laugh. Sherlock squeezed his hand, his own smirk assuring John that he understood.

* * *

Expecting the waiting room to be crowded, John was pleasantly surprised and relieved to see there were only two very well-dressed patients. He looked round him, then down at himself, and for an instant wished he had chosen his clothing more carefully when he dressed, but, as always, Sherlock burst into his thoughts.

"You are just fine, John. You look like John Watson is supposed to look, not some over-indulged client who frequents a Mycroft-recommended, ridiculously exorbitant, private clinic."

"That was a mouthful, but you forgot pretentious."

"Quite right, John, that, too."

John wondered if Sherlock realized his description of the other two people could very well include himself. As soon as the thought swept through his mind he discarded it. Another glance at them confirmed that although Sherlock was dressed in an impeccable suit and white shirt he was nothing like the two noses tilted high in the air. They were more Mycroft's sort.

John looked down at the strong hand that held his, pressed his hand to his belly and forced himself to relax. Once he was settled in a chair, Sherlock strode to the so-labeled welcome desk.

The doctor heard Sherlock announce his name in a soft voice, followed by the clatter of a clipboard, and the detective's footsteps as he approached and dropped into the chair beside him. "Shall I complete this questionnaire while you hold your belly?"

Under any other circumstances, Sherlock's innocent face and the absurdity of his question would have made John laugh. Already knackered and wanting to be home, John smiled at Sherlock and nodded his agreement. Sherlock knew him well, but John was still shocked when he reviewed the thirty questions and found that the detective had correctly answered all of them.

After John signed the sheet, Sherlock returned it to the desk. He smiled with childlike pride so obvious that John felt it deserved a small reward. He squeezed Sherlock's leg, just above his knee. In response, the detective rested his hand over John's.

"You are so good to me," John whispered, resting his head against Sherlock's shoulder for the expected long wait.

"John Watson?"

"Yes, here," John responded, pushing himself to his feet.

"Follow me, please."

Sherlock fell into step behind him, but at the door, the nurse stopped him. "Are you family?"

At the indignant expression on Sherlock's face, John cleared his throat and twined their fingers together. "He's more than family, he's my whole life. Where I go, he goes, no exceptions."

The woman stared at him for several seconds before she turned a perfect about face and marched down the hallway. In the small examination suite, John sat in the only chair available, while Sherlock stood behind him, silent and brooding.

John hoped that the woman would not be the one to take his blood pressure. The image of the detective verbally eviscerating her was too horrific to consider, so he pushed it to the back of his mind, but not before smiling to himself.

When the door opened, Sherlock firmly gripped his shoulders from behind. John tensed and pressed his belly, until a tiny, blonde nurse bounced into the room.

"Hi! I'm Kate. I'm going to check your blood pressure and your temperature before the doctor sees you."

John bit his lip at the young woman's demeanor. "All right."

"How are you feeling? I saw the photos of your injury. Nasty business. I'm so sorry."

John observed her closely as she attached the blood pressure cuff to his upper arm.

"I'm feeling better today, thanks."

"That's good to hear," she said, recording his blood pressure into the computer.

Kate directed her smile toward Sherlock. "I'm sorry, I don't think we've met?"

Her consideration of Sherlock went far beyond professionalism, which annoyed John on several levels even though he knew better. When Sherlock said nothing, John spoke for him. "This is William. He's my partner."

If she was disappointed, she hid it well. "Oh, that's nice. I'll just take your temp and I'll be off."

John waited impatiently for the thermometer to beep. When it finally did, he watched the tiny blond mark the reading.

"No fever. Blood pressure is fine. I'll tell Dr. Sloane that

you're here. Nice to meet you."

Looking up at Sherlock as the door closed behind the young woman, John caught the smirk on Sherlock's face. The detective frowned, then looked chastened, then shrugged.

"Insufferable-"

"Don't, Sherlock. It's not nice."

"Why did you call me William?"

"You're undercover."

Reminiscent of his brother, Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and pursed his lips, finally nodded, inhaled, placing his finger against his lips. "But-"

In situations of the current type, John wasn't above a little manipulation of his own. "Just no, Sherlock. If you would like to be snogged into the middle of next week when we get home, you will not finish that sentence."

"John?"

"Sherlock? Please? For me?"

The detective's pouty mouth melted into a soft smile. "Very well, John."

"Thank you."

Sherlock patted his shoulders just as the door swung open and Dr. Sloane stepped in.

"Good morning, gentlemen."

John stood, with some difficulty, extending his hand. "Morning."

Sherlock stepped from behind the chair to stand beside him.

Protective stance, John realised with a rush of warmth. When Sherlock didn't offer his hand to the older man, John elbowed him, catching him on the hipbone. Sherlock's hand shot out to greet the older doctor.

John glanced to his left as he sat, just in time to catch the rumple appear between Sherlock's brows and the proof that he realized he'd erred. It was a small matter they'd laugh about later.

"So, Dr. Watson, tell me how you are progressing since I last saw you at A&E?"

"John, please."

"All right, John."

"After the five days in hospital, the first few days at home were difficult. The pain was sometimes as much as when I was shot in the shoulder. Once the pain killers took over, I slept most of the time, and when I was awake, my mind was unclear, I couldn't think properly. I had nightmares, too."

"All very common with opiates, unfortunately. And now?"

"Sherlock considered cutting the dose by a quarter strength to see if was as effective and so allow me to think better, but he was adamant that I speak with you before doing so. With some breathing and applied pressure techniques he taught me, the pain was nearly always manageable provided I kept to the prescribed schedule."

At Dr. Sloane's obvious scrutiny, John hesitated, afraid that Sherlock would deduce the man, but the detective returned to his place behind the chair before speaking.

"I'm a scientist and a chemist. I determined it was feasible, if you agreed, of course, that reducing the dose would help him lessen or perhaps avoid the nightmares."

"I can see John is in good hands, Mr. Holmes."

"With both of us managing his care, I believe he is, Dr. Sloane."

Grateful Sherlock used his most pleasant approach, and that the mild-mannered Dr. Sloane either didn't notice or ignored the 'I'm the smartest man in the room' subtext was the best he could have expected. It was so glaringly obvious to him that he had to smile. And it was doubly clear by the strong squeeze to his shoulders that the omniscient Sherlock Holmes would prevail.

Dr. Sloane looked from one to the other, but neither agreed nor disagreed. If the man disagreed, in the end, John would follow Sherlock's recommendation. No doubt there.

"Yes, well, I'll step out while you undress. Just your shirt, I think, so that I can get a good look at the laceration. There's a bit of a chill in here; there's a gown should you need it."

As soon as the older doctor departed, Sherlock leaned over to whisper in his ear.

"Yes, John, do wear the gown. I won't be responsible for what might happen should I see your-"

"Sherlock!" John giggled. "And you called me incorrigible."

"I can't help myself, John, I love you. Every centimeter of you, to be exact."

"Deflecting again, Sherlock, flattering though it is."

"Yes, John. I'm guilty as charged."

"Fibbing, Sherlock."

Sherlock's laughter went straight to John's heart and other places. Reaching for the buttons of his shirt, he hurried to remove it and slip into the gown before the Dr. Sloane's return.

Gown draped round him, John sat on the examination couch in a very uncomfortable position as Sherlock slid into the chair he'd vacated. He suspected Sherlock was just as impatient for the doctor to return, as once again the need to be at home overwhelmed him.

"John, you're fidgeting. Are you all right?"

"Just little twinges. Sitting here with no way to support my back is hurting my chest."

Sherlock moved to stand beside him. "I have you, just lean against my arm."

A great sigh of relief escaped his throat when the detective lowered him to the table, tucking the pillow beneath his head.

"Better?"

"Yes, thank you."

With a glance at the door, Sherlock dipped his head to place a chaste kiss to John's lips.

"Much better."

Sherlock stood straight as the door opened to admit the doctor, who moved to the opposite side. Immediately protective for the second time, Sherlock remained at John's side, a silent, stalwart companion, his strong hand firm on John's shoulder.

Once the bandage was removed, the examination was quick, but thorough.

"No inflammation, and the stitches are holding just fine. There is one area, here, over the edge of your lowest rib that is a bit problematic, but it should heal without any cause for concern. It's a week now, you can shower without the bandage, however bathing is another week away, when the outer edges are better healed."

John glanced at Sherlock, aware at once by his expression and the bright blue eyes that he took in each word spoken and filed them away. Data was what Sherlock thrived on.

"All in all, John, everything looks fine. Your blood pressure is good, no fever, your heart is strong. I dare say your prognosis is much improved from the our last encounter two weeks ago."

"Thank you, that's good to hear."

"Just be gentle with yourself for another few weeks and you should be all well and good. As for the medication, regulate it as you see fit for your comfort level, but do not stop it abruptly. Decrease it over a period of time. The breathing exercises will certainly help."

Before the doctor could help him, Sherlock slipped an arm behind his back and lifted him to a sitting position. John grunted, nearly crying out from a sharp pain skittering along the ridge of the healing flesh.

"Breath, John, you know the method."

John looked up just as Sherlock wiped the look of concern from his face. "I'm okay Sherlock, it just surprised me. I'm due for more pills when we get home."

"Just breathe."

Feeling the older man's eyes on him, John kept his eyes locked onto the floor while he waited for the pain to pass.

"Dr. Sloane, I would like to take John away on holiday, a week, perhaps two. It's a cottage my brother suggested near Shaftesbury, Dorset, quiet, wooded, with a well-equipped clinic, should the need arise."

"I think that would be fine. There's a good physician there at the clinic, one I'm sure your brother Mycroft would recommend. His name is Sloane, Gerald Sloane, my nephew."

Feeling slightly left out, John looked up at Sherlock, but he was otherwise engaged.

"You're acquainted with my brother?"

"Oh yes, I'm a member-"

"Of the Diogenes club, not surprising at all," Sherlock growled, displeasure written all over his face. "The puzzle has come together. Now I know why he suggested Dorset."

"Sherlock," John said, injecting himself into the conversation, "why would you be surprised? Your brother knows just about everyone living in England and a few dead ones, too."

"I see you've recovered, John. It's time to go home. Thank you, Dr. Sloane. You've been very helpful. I'll keep a close eye on John as he continues his recuperation."

Whatever happened in that moment was unclear to John. He'd missed something, somewhere.

Once Dr. Sloane escaped the room, Sherlock helped him into his shirt and began to button it for him. John placed his hands over the detective's, holding them firmly.

"Sherlock, what just happened? You were fine one moment and when Dr. Sloane mentioned your brother-oh."

The detective slapped away John's hands and continued fastening the buttons. John let him.

"I'm sorry. I must have lost my mind for a moment."

"Unimportant, John."

"No, it is important if it upsets you."

"John, let's go home, now."

John sighed, shaking his head. "Yes, all right."

John slid off the couch without tucking his shirt and pointedly ignored the stab to his side which made him pause before reaching for his coat. Allowing Sherlock to help him into it was easy when he suddenly felt more than a little fatigued. He waited patiently for Sherlock to call for a cab.

Taking Sherlock's hand as they walked from the room and toward the exit, John was grateful he didn't have to stop to check out.

Sherlock released his hand to curl his arm round his shoulders as they pushed through the door. The gesture warmed him to his toes.

Whether on the street or via phone, procuring a cab had become something of an art for Sherlock. The black cab waited for them as they stepped outside. Once settled and belted in, John leaned his head against the cold glass.

"John?"

"Just weary, Sherlock. I wish we were home already."

"Soon, John."

"Not soon enough."

The detective held John's hand in a firm grip. John squeezed back.

"Tea?"

John smiled. "Unless you've got it secreted in your pocket, I think we'll have to wait until we get home."

"Obviously, John. Don't be an idiot."

The sparkle in Sherlock's eyes and the fond smile on his impossibly gorgeous lips cancelled any retort he might have uttered with a harsh word, or maybe a curse or two. Instead he leaned over to kiss his cheek.

Sherlock's reaction was immediate. "Careful, John, I may not be able to control my desire for you _._ You know how I am."

"Yes, I do. And I love every little quirk and all the 'a bit not good' things, too. You are a dichotomy of vast and unusual facets, Sherlock Holmes, and I wouldn't change a single thing about you."

Sherlock stared at him. "I have no response to that."

"I'm sure you wouldn't have to think very hard to come up with one."

"You actually love all my quirks even though you chastise me for them?"

"Well, I do wish you would help with the washing up every now and then once I am healthy again, but it's not something that would make me leave you."

"Thank you for that dissertation, John. I appreciate it very much."

"Bugger off, Sherlock."

The chuckle, deep, and as smooth as melted chocolate, made John's eyes prickle, but he blinked away the threatening tears. Sherlock's squeeze to his hand signalled his understanding.

"Just wait until I get you home."

"I'm still injured, Sherlock."

"I have my ways, John."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"No need to fear, John."

"So you say."

"Hmm."

A comfortable silence settled round them for the rest of the trip to Baker Street. John held fast to Sherlock's hand, his lifeline to all that he needed in his life. Sometimes the detective's methods of caring and love were a bit unusual, but always from his heart.

"Ah, Baker Street, safe and sound," Sherlock announced as the cab stopped at the kerb.

"Thank the clueing Gods."

Sherlock turned to look at him, a silly grin on his lips. "What was that?"

John glanced at him, shrugging his shoulders. "I don't know. It

just came out. Maybe the pills are messing up my head again."

"Maybe. John, do you have any-?"

Shaking his head, he reached into his pocket. "Of course, don't I always pay the fare?"

Out on the pavement, John reached for Sherlock's hand to steady himself.

"Okay?"

"Just a bit wobbly."

"Right. First a good lunch and then off to bed for a rest."

"I've spent far too much time in bed this last week," John argued as they entered the hallway. "My chair by the fire will be fine."

"Shall I help you with your coat?" Sherlock asked as he removed his own.

"I think I can do that."

Sherlock waited for him to do so, then took his hand and escorted him up the stairs.

A note pinned to the door told them Mrs. Hudson had left another casserole in the fridge.

"She's not just our landlady anymore, Sherlock."

"Yes, I see that."

"More than a housekeeper, too."

"Perhaps a mother?"

"Good deduction, Sherlock."

"No deduction, John. Mrs. Hudson has all the attributes an annoying, meddling mother should have, therefore, even though she has no children of her own, we have unwittingly become her sons."

"It would seem so."

After washing his hands, Sherlock carried the container to the counter. Peering under the lid on the casserole dish as though it might explode, Sherlock looked back at him with an inscrutable expression.

"I think it's just another vegetable casserole, John. Nothing dangerous."

John laughed. "It could have been a thumb and kidney pie."

"John, you know she doesn't much care for thumbs."

"There's that."

"Lunch now?"

"Yes, starving."

"Chinese takeaway for dinner?"

"God, yes."

"Good. Now that we have that decided, let's analyse this casserole for the number of vegetables she's managed to hide this time."

"I'll prepare the tea while you pop some in the microwave."

"But first." Sherlock wrapped his arms round him and held him as close as his battered torso would allow.

John lifted his head to deliver his promise and kissed Sherlock into the middle of next week.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

 **A Bit of Cheek**

* * *

After consuming a large portion of Mrs. Hudson's vegetable casserole for their lunch, Sherlock hurriedly gathered the dishes, depositing them at the bottom of the sink and rinsed them with the sprayer.

John watched him as he lingered over his last few sips of tea, the oncoming numbness of the medication he'd swallowed at the beginning of their meal slowly invading his body. It was an almost pleasant non-feeling after the uptake of pain from his visit with Dr. Sloane. Content to sit a few moments longer and not think about anything in particular, he let Sherlock do the thinking for both of them.

As soon as John finished his tea, Sherlock snatched the cup and set it in the sink.

In silence, with just a hint of a smile dancing on his lips, Sherlock offered his arm. Clearly something genius was going on when Sherlock led him to the bedroom.

"Sherlock."

"I know, John."

"I can't..."

"Yes, John."

"But-"

"Oh, for God's sake, John, shut up!" Sherlock shouted, throwing his hands in the air.

Sherlock's reaction stung, John's eyes filled, although he averted his face so Sherlock wouldn't see, and all the warmth he'd felt since coming home vanished like the snap of the fingers. John stood beside the bed, his head bowed, squeezing his eyes closed to stop the burn biting him from the inside, and all the while he wondered why he felt so vulnerable. He glanced up just in time to see the pain on Sherlock's beautiful face. He'd finally pushed him beyond the limit of his patience.

"Sorry. Oh, John, I'm so sorry. I'm not angry, just insensitive. I'm sorry."

Averting his gaze again, John closed his eyes and, with his hands fisted at his sides, waited.

Then, with one gentle touch, Sherlock turned him round to sit on the bed. In just a few moments, he was undressed to his pants, and socks. Shivering in the chilled air, but unsure if he could speak, he soon felt the sleeves of a t-shirt rising up his arms. Bending to allow the shirt to be pulled over his head earned him two elegant hands cupping his face and a kiss bestowed. John relaxed under the soft caress as the detective smoothed the shirt over his back and chest.

Sherlock chewed on his lower lip as he lifted him as though he were a child and laid him on the bed. His gentleness endeared him to John more than any moment over the past few days.

"Bugger, can you budge over just a bit? You're too close to the edge."

John bit back his best soldierly groan when the movement set the nerves firing all along the line of the laceration, but Sherlock saw and heard.

"No, no, John, stop. I'm sorry. Let me help."

Crawling onto the bed, Sherlock slid his hands under John thighs and lower back, easily sliding him to the center of the bed. Straddling him, the detective lifted his head and shoulders to align his spine and push a pillow beneath.

"Okay?"

John nodded, blinking furiously to keep his tears at bay. He lifted a hand toward Sherlock, beckoning him to join him.

Undressing quickly, to the point of tipping himself over and crashing to the floor, Sherlock finally slipped beneath the sheet and duvet and crowded in on him. On his right side, his madman pressed himself tightly against him so that there was no room for doubt that he intended to snuggle and cuddle and love him.

With a wriggle and a push, Sherlock rolled him on his uninjured side and with an arm under his neck and a hand at his lower back, they were together from chest to thighs for the first time in too many days.

John tucked his head against Sherlock's shoulder and nuzzled into his neck, in the place he most liked to be, his safe place.

The opiates were working, his wound pleasantly tingly, his head mostly clear, albeit bordering on sleep-dazed, and the detectively warmth surrounding him. Was detectively a word?

Maybe not, but this moment was too perfect to worry about it.

"Stop thinking, John. That's my area."

John kissed the gorgeous, pale neck beneath his lips and sighed. "Can we stay here forever?"

"That would infinitely please me, however, Mrs. Hudson would evict us for non-payment of the rent."

"Well-"

"No, John, don't even suggest it. I will only allow myself to be kept by one man and it's not my brother."

"One man, huh?"

"Yes, you idiot, and I mean that as an endearing term."

"I wonder who that could be," John teased. "You don't have many friends. Two, maybe three?"

"One, John. Just the one. Everyone else is just an acquaintance. Well, except perhaps Mrs. Hudson."

"Well, that narrows it down to...me?"

"Yes, of course it's you," Sherlock grumbled under his breath. "It's you, it's always been you and always will be...you."

When Sherlock began to giggle, an undignified sound he'd later deny, John tilted his head back to look up at him.

"Tease if you must, John," donning his hurt expression.

"Sherlock, now you're teasing."

John's breath caught in his throat as he gazed at the otherworldly eyes that magically slipped from blue, to green, to the most unusual moon-silver. Pulling Sherlock closer, he kissed each eyelid, his nose and finally settled over his mouth. Sherlock moaned his approval, wrapping John tenderly in his arms.

"As much as I enjoy making love with you, this...this is what I treasure most."

"Mmm. John."

"Is that a yes, my love?"

"Most definitely, my dear doctor," he whispered against John's busy mouth. "Sometimes you seem so small," he said in the tone reminiscent of his 'are you really gonna keep that?' comment regarding John's long ago mustache.

In gentle retaliation, he bit his detective's lower lip. Far from putting Sherlock off, it encouraged him. Soon the snogging and giggling gave way to gentle nips and feathering touches. Settled into each other, they finally gave in to sleep as a welcome reward for a stressful morning.

* * *

Mid-afternoon found John in that warm place between asleep and awake, and no sound but Sherlock's soft breathing. It was a treat to be able to lie beside him and listen to his sleepy sounds.

Lifting his eyelids just enough to see the man he adored, and hoping he wouldn't encounter eyes looking back at him, John delighted at the sight of a slumbering consulting detective-his consulting detective-with mouth slightly open and drooling.

This was Sherlock at his most unguarded and vulnerable and John's heart ached to touch him, but he waited, knowing that in just a moment, this man he loved would wake, alerted to his own wakefulness by some minute change in the air surrounding them. Or, more likely, something beyond his understanding.

John smiled when Sherlock stirred and whispered his name.

"Present."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock wiped away the drool on his t-shirt, no doubt indignant that he'd done such a thing, and stole a kiss. "Did you sleep well?"

"I did. Did you?"

"Yes, thank you."

"What woke you?"

"The shift in your breathing."

"Ah, something you would notice even when asleep."

"When it concerns you, yes, I miss nothing."

John kissed his nose. "My hero."

"John, you know I-"

John pressed his palm over Sherlock's mouth. "Shut up, Sherlock. I can have a hero if I want one."

Sherlock's smile was warm and lovely. "Of course, John."

"I think I'd like some tea and maybe a biscuit or two to hold me over until dinner. You did promise Chinese."

"Yes, if you're up for it."

John thought for a moment before answering. "I think I can handle something like sweet and sour eggplant."

"Sounds delicious. Perhaps I'll have the same. With red bell peppers and rice?"

"Yes, please."

"Seven-ish?"

"All right. "Maybe there's something decent on the telly later. Or you could play your new composition. I haven't heard it yet."

"Perhaps."

"Have you heard from Lestrade? Any cases?"

"No. I instructed him not to call unless it was a life or death emergency."

"Our cases are rarely an emergency, Sherlock, and most of them are murders or a mystery with a dead body, so I don't think he'll be calling. Why did you put him off? You can take on a case, you don't need me."

"I do need you, John. Always."

"Thank you for that, but we both know that's not true. You were just fine before me and you'd-"

"Do not finish that sentence, John. I refuse to hear it."

The emphatic warning was clear. "All right, okay. Don't get your knickers in a twist and don't say you don't wear knickers; you wear pants, knickers are for women."

"You remembered."

"I love you, I try to remember the things that are important to you."

"John, knickers as opposed to pants is not something that is important enough for you to remember. You can delete that."

John appreciated the sentiment as well as the warm smile that told him Sherlock was aware he was teasing, so when the detective snogged him senseless, he decided to tease more often. And, he held Sherlock responsible for the sudden wave of vertigo that had him clinging to the detective's shoulders.

* * *

After a delicious dinner and a quick cleanup, coffee, and Mrs. Turner's fairy cakes beside the hearth was just what they needed to put to rest the tension of the early morning doctor's visit. After all the sleep they'd had over the past few days, each was rested and fully awake late into the evening. Telly was banned, laptops remained closed on the table, phones were set to go directly and silently to voicemail.

John gazed at Sherlock curled up in his chair, amused at how easily he had settled into this new, temporary lifestyle. He'd been tender and attentive with no evidence of boredom or the desire to be anywhere but at home. He chose to ignore the few times Sherlock had snapped at him simply because the kindness far outweighed the sarcasm

As if he could read John's mind, Sherlock turned from staring into the fire to deduce him. "You're thinking again, John."

John gazed at him, wearing his best John smile. "Yes, I do that quite often."

"Ah, a bit of cheek."

"Is it off-putting? My thinking, I mean."

"I knew what you meant, and not in the least, John."

"Oh-kay. I was just thinking how good you've been to me. And that you've been ruminating for the last hour."

Sherlock continued to gaze at him, but said nothing. He turned back to the fire before speaking again. Denial was not forthcoming; John scored it a minor deduction victory.

"There was a lot of blood because I didn't see the knife until it was too late. I'm sorry."

John reached for his hand. "Sherlock, I don't blame you, and I'm glad you were with me when it happened. You kept me conscious by applying pressure while we waited for the ambulance to arrive. You did everything that could be done and I didn't have to tell you what to do."

Suddenly Sherlock slipped from his chair to the floor in front of him. Dropping his head to John's lap, he tucked his hands beneath the doctor's bum, which in turn, caused him to squirm.

Tangling his fingers in the wild curls, John massaged Sherlock's skull. Such strong emotion from the detective was unexpected. Equally surprising was how long he'd kept it at bay.

"Can you fold yourself into the chair with me? I'd suggest the sofa, but it's so far away and it's much warmer and cozier here."

John watched while Sherlock put more wood on the fire, aware at once of the detective's hesitation when he turned toward him.

"Are you sure? I don't want to hurt you."

Moving to one side of the chair so they'd both be comfortable, John patted the chair seat. "Lean on my right side and I think we'll be okay."

It took a bit of wriggling, with Sherlock's long legs over the arm of the chair, but once Sherlock planted his bum between the chair arm and John's thigh, they were both comfortable and very close. Sooner or later John was sure one or both of them would suffer from circulation deficits, but, surprisingly, they cuddled with kissing for an hour before Sherlock was the first to move.

"My legs are asleep," Sherlock said as he rolled off onto the floor.

"I'd be happy to wake them up for you."

A smile lit up Sherlock's face. "I know you would. Did I hurt you?"

"Not a bit."

"Fibbing," Sherlock said with the mock annoyance John knew well.

"I don't fib."

"Neither does the King of England."

John snorted, holding his side. "Don't make me laugh."

"I think it's a bit late for that."

"You are such a-"

"Careful, John, it's been a delightful evening. Don't spoil it."

"Git," John said, delivering a gentle fist to Sherlock's shoulder.

"Ouch."

"Prat," he countered with an earlobe squeeze.

"Ow."

"Wanker."

"Now you're getting rather personal, John."

They laughed together until John slid forward to the edge of the chair and pulled Sherlock between his knees. With his arms round the detective's chest, John began another massive snogging that sent Sherlock tumbling backwards. He sat hard on his bum, his shocked expression sending John into a fit of laughter that brought him up short when the nerves along his laceration reminded him it was time for more pills.

"Payback, John. Karma."

John stuck out his tongue at him.

"Childish, unworthy of your profession, Dr. Watson."

"Like you are never childish, Sherlock-fucking-Holmes."

"Ah, swearing now. Definitely unworthy of your medical personna, but quite in keeping with Captain John Watson. Interesting."

At the intensity in the detective's gray eyes, John waited for Sherlock to shred him with a verbal tongue-lashing. It never materialized, but John giggled when he connected the words with their assertive kissing over the last hour. He decided it certainly defined a tongue-lashing of the best kind.

The detective's eyes shifted gray to soft blue as he held John's head in his long fingers and swooped in for the gentlest of kisses that melted the doctor to his core.

"I love you, John Watson, with all that I am," he said against John's lips. I'll say it again, you make me a better man. And I will love you forever."

John's eyes prickled as he returned each tiny kiss as lovingly as they were given. Sherlock's eyes, when the doctor forced his own eyes open enough to take in the sight, were brimming with tears.

"Okay?"

"I am now."

The doctor smiled. "Me, too."

Sherlock stood, pulling John to his feet.

With a hand on the detective's arm, John delayed his moving away. "Sherlock, I love you, too, with all my heart...and all the other bits."

Sherlock smiled, took his hand, glancing back once to be certain the fireplace screen was in place to secure the fire that was little more than a soft glow, and walked him down the hall to the bedroom.

* * *

John's moan woke Sherlock immediately, as it always did no matter how deeply asleep. Glancing at John's clock on the bedside table, he groaned softly. Three-ish. Again.

"John," he whispered against the doctor's temple. "It's okay, you're safe. Go back to sleep."

Now that John was able to lie partially on his right side, it was easier to curl round him. John settled, secure within his arms, but Sherlock lay awake, contemplating the logistics of their impending holiday to the South Coast. Upon entering his Mind Palace, three queries presented themselves.

Was John well enough to endure the two hour and sixteen minute, one hundred point nine mile trip?

Probably. They still had a few days for John to rest. If not, the deposit on the cottage was easily forfeited.

Was a secluded cottage in their best interest given the possible nature of an as yet undetected threat?

Unknown at present.

Should he ask his insufferable brother to assist in a diversionary departure and provide a security perimeter round the cottage?

Without a doubt. He surmised that Mycroft already knew via the surveillance in the flat. The spider-slash-spectre always knew.

Another soft moan, more like a whimper, drew him out of his mind palace and back to the man lying beside him.

"Sherlock?"

"Here, John."

John reached out for him, his trembling fingers closing round his wrist.

"Sherlock," he whispered in a desperate voice.

"It's all right. It's just a dream. Sleep now."

Sherlock's mind would not quiet as he lay next to John. The fitful sleep caused by the dreams that had come and gone earlier in his recovery had once again returned and Sherlock was unsettled by it. Decreasing the dosage, he had hoped, would reduce or eliminate them. That had not been the case.

Was John ingesting more than he should? No, the pills were not in John's possession and they were kept out of sight on a top shelf in the kitchen. Sherlock always knew how many remained in the bottle and checked the count at the end of each day. The additional pills hidden in his wardrobe were unknown to John. Had the pills been tampered with? Unlikely. He'd filled the prescription with the hospital chemist.

Dr. Sloane was pleased with John's progress. The laceration was healing properly and he agreed with the continuing reduction of the medication when they settled in at the cottage.

John's demeanor over the last twenty-four hours had been exemplary. He'd been loving and caring, very much the usual John Watson.

Then why did he feel he'd missed something? Had he missed something? What had he missed? There was no answer.

"Sherlock?"

John's voice, slurred and sleepy, startled him. Pressing his chest against the doctor's back Sherlock hooked his chin over John's shoulder, to kiss his ear. "Right here, John."

"Don't go."

Sherlock paused before answering. What was the origin of that fear? "Not going anywhere, John. It's the middle of the night."

"Just...don't...leave...me?

"I won't, I promise," Sherlock reassured him, holding him still tighter against his body.

They needed to get away from Baker Street. Sooner rather than later.

It was a long time before Sherlock finally slept.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

 **Suspicious John**

* * *

Morning announced itself quietly. Once awake, Sherlock suggested to a still groggy John that a lie in was preferable to crawling out from under the warm duvet. John agreed with a snuffle.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better. Still hurts though."

"That's to be expected. Do you feel the pills are still taking care of the pain?"

"I think so, at least most of the time. My head is beginning to clear sooner with the lower dosage, but the dreams aren't getting better. If anything they're more vivid and disturbing."

Sherlock studied him for a moment before continuing. "John, do you remember your dream last night?"

John turned his head to look at him. Sherlock moved more to the side so John had room to lie flat on his back.

"Don't remember a dream. Did I wake you?"

"Not a problem, John, I had some thinking to do."

"Thinking? About what?"

"Many things, our trip to Dorset in two days, and I have changed my mind about borrowing a car from my brother."

"All right."

"We'll rent one, a Land Rover, I think, like the one we rented to drive to Dartmoor." It was so easy to deflect with John, especially when he was still half-asleep.

"Very nice, Sherlock. Very comfortable."

John's eyes drifted shut as Sherlock watched him for any signs of discomfort. While John struggled to remain awake, Sherlock gathered his thoughts.

If it wasn't the opiate, was it an emotional reaction? They had spoken about the attack in which John was hurt, but the discussion was brief and John was the one comforting him, not the opposite. Perhaps John needed to talk about his feelings.

"Sherlock?"

Deep in thought, Sherlock was only vaguely aware of John calling to him. It was the catch in John's voice and the tugging on his T-shirt that brought him back to the moment.

"Sherlock?"

Wrapping his fingers round the hand tangled in his shirt, he squeezed to comfort. "Yes, John, sorry, I was thinking. Is there something I can do for you?"

"I need to get up now. I want to shower and eat breakfast. Is that okay with you?"

"Of course, John."

"I think I can shower by myself this morning, if that's all right?"

Sherlock observed John, for several seconds, before he responded. "If you feel strong enough, then you should do that."

"It's not that I don't want you to shower with me-"

Sherlock leaned down to kiss his throat. "It's fine, John. You no longer need me hovering over you all the time." Even as he said it, disappointment kicked him in the heart.

"I-okay." John sighed.

The detective couldn't miss the hurt that flashed across John's sleepy face. It confirmed his prime suspicion and laid others to rest. John's emotional balance was off, that was certain. Whether or not it was the pills or the impact of his attack was not clear at present.

"I love your hovering...when I don't feel like myself," John murmured as he wobbled down the hall.

Sherlock heard, frowned, and blinked away the prickling behind his eyes.

* * *

Mid-afternoon, on the day before they were to depart, Sherlock helped John into his warmest jumper which was enough to ward off the autumn chill, and led him down the seventeen stairs to the door of Mrs. Hudson's flat.

Two swift taps on the glass were enough to bring their landlady to the door.

"Oh, hello, dears. Oh, John, you look much better. Not so peaky as before. Are you feeling better?"

John's forced smile contradicted the annoyance in his eyes. "Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock silently commiserated with John, remembering Mrs. Hudson had said nearly the exact words to him when they departed to the appointment with Dr. Sloane.

"What can I do for you?"

"John needs some fresh air, and standing out on Baker Street won't do, so I thought perhaps we could spend a bit of time in your garden?"

"Of course. I was just about to bring some waste to the bins. Come with me, and shut the door behind you. I'll give you the extra key."

Sherlock did as she asked, then allowed John, who glanced up at him with a bewildered expression, to precede him. As he passed, Sherlock whispered conspiratorially in his ear. "As soon as she leaves the waste, I'll dispatch her so we can talk privately."

"About what?"

"Things, John. Things I have on my mind."

"Am I going to like this? And why do we have to talk about _things_ in the fresh air?" John whispered back, suspicion clear on his handsome face.

"Just remember I love you."

John looked away, shaking his head.

The detective frowned. Humor didn't always work with John, and by his unreadable expression, this was one of those times. Sherlock's return from the dead was a debacle. He hoped this would be much easier, with no anger.

As it turned out, Sherlock didn't have to say a word to Mrs. Hudson. After binning her waste, she smiled at them, patted John's hand and stepped inside.

"You have the key."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said with a sweet smile. "Ta."

Once Mrs. Hudson was inside and the door closed, John marched into his personal space. Sherlock managed to keep a smile off his face when John tried to get a finger hold on the front of his shirt and failed.

"You never say, 'ta _,_ ' Sherlock. What's going on? Is something wrong? Did I do something wrong?"

Sherlock took John's hand, leading him to a small bench in the corner of the miniscule area. In the summer months, with potted plants and chimes and the like, it barely passed for a garden. Now it was just an empty space, a gloomy reminder that winter wasn't far away.

"Sit down, please, John."

"Oh, this is going to be bad, I just know it."

The doctor's apprehension was painfully obvious. As Sherlock observed, John turned in on himself as much as was possible considering his injury, and began to tremble.

"Oh, do relax, John." The moment the words passed his lips, he regretted them. "I'm sorry, that was rude. Please, John, nothing is wrong. I just wanted to talk with you and have you get some fresh air without worrying about what might be going on out on Baker Street...or having my brother hear our conversation, if you know what I mean?"

The doctor nodded more than a few times in rapid succession. Sherlock slipped an arm round his back and pulled him in close to comfort him. Releasing a drawn out breath, John rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

"John, I would like you to listen to my each of my points before you respond."

John tilted his head up. "All right."

"When you were at the full dose of opiates, you had strange, distorted dreams that we attributed to the medication. When we reduced the dose, the dreams began to recede, then disappeared. Opiates cannot be stopped abruptly, so gradually reducing them was the proper thing to do."

"Yes."

"Last night your dreams returned. Several times you woke, calling to me, reaching out to me. It was as if you needed the security of knowing I was there because in your dream, you were afraid. You asked me not to leave you."

Sherlock paused to give John time to process all that he had said.

After some time passed, John looked up at him. "I don't remember calling out to you or reaching for you. I don't remember having dreams, but if you say I did those things, it must be the truth. I trust you, Sherlock."

"John, I think you need to talk about what happened to you. You may be avoiding it, maybe you don't want to talk about it because it still frightens you."

"I don't remember much about it, Sherlock. I remember the pain, the blood, and you. You were afraid for me."

"Do you think that we could talk more about it together? After dinner tonight? Perhaps we could work through it so we won't take it with us on holiday and you can be free of this fear? Would you be willing to do that?"

"Yes, all right."

Sherlock tipped John's head up to access his lips. "Thank you."

* * *

For the rest of the afternoon and more noticeably as dinner approached, Sherlock sensed John's nearly constant observation.

In the kitchen, where several completed experiments awaited his attention, Sherlock felt John's eyes on him. Invariably, whenever he stepped out of John's line of sight, the doctor moved to stand nearby or at his side. Once, while Sherlock sat before his microscope, John stood close, arm against arm, silent, but humming with perhaps an emotion for which had no frame of reference, and could not deduce.

Whether it was the anticipation of their impending discussion or a sudden emotional need to keep him in sight, Sherlock could only guess. And he didn't guess, not where John was concerned. A hunch was one thing, guessing had no substance to it, no data attached. Guessing was for idiots, akin to losing a boomerang. He shook his head at the inane reference that made no sense at all. At the moment, John wasn't the only one lost.

"Tea, John?" Sherlock smiled up at him in an attempt to dispel the tension. Perhaps delaying their discussion until evening had been a mistake.

"All right."

John moved away from his side to where the kettle sat on the counter. From his position at the microscope, Sherlock observed John each time he carefully stretched to pull the mugs and tea from the cupboard.

Aware of the soft grunt, Sherlock noticed John's hand held against his ribs. Still painful. The detective made a mental note to invent some excuse for an additional viewing of John's stitches and to set a visit to Dr. Sloane to have them removed when they returned to Baker Street after their holiday.

John moved about nearly as fluidly as he had before the injury. Stretching and bending still gave him pause, but it was vastly improved in the last few days. If Sherlock could say the same following their talk, he'd count himself a lucky man to have his John again.

Still away in his thoughts, he started a bit when John sat the mug of tea at his right side. "Thank you, John," he said, tilting his chin up to invite a kiss.

John smiled, his eyes twinkling with silent humor as he leaned into the kiss, circling the detective's neck in a hug.

"I love you, John Watson."

"I love you, too."

Retrieving his mug from the counter, John stood at the side of the table. "Is it all right if I-"

"Of course, John. Your presence is not a disruption. You're always welcome."

John's frowned. "Don't spoil it, Sherlock," John said, taking a sip of his tea.

"I'm sorry?"

"You don't have to...coddle me."

"I'm not aware of doing such a thing."

"And please don't use your indulgent voice on me. It doesn't help."

"I don't understand, John."

"Just be you. The you who's been here since the...'incident,' not the other you."

"All right," Sherlock agreed, without understanding. "But there's only one of me."

"Today has been tedious _,_ to use your word. Hateful, even. And I know we decided to talk later, but I don't want to talk about it today. Maybe tomorrow, on the drive. I don't know, Sherlock. I just need to be...calm and not worry about setting a rigid time frame for talking. Can't we just let it happen when it happens? What is it they say? Let it happen organically?"

"I agree."

John's gaze rested on him. "What?"

"I've been having second and third thoughts about our...talk."

"Oh?"

Sherlock beckoned to John with a wave of his hand. John reacted at once, his anger deflated, carefully situating himself on Sherlock's lap. The detective held him close, kissing his temple.

"As you say, it should happen in its own time."

John's mouth softened into a smile. "Thank you, love."

"I should thank you for reminding me that I can't solve your worries for you, but I can help if you'll allow me that privilege. And I hope you'll seriously consider my offer."

John pulled back, smiling down at Sherlock. "Only if you promise me one thing."

"What's that, my dear John?"

"Once in awhile, could you see your way clear to be grammatically incorrect? It's really annoying that your speech is always so perfect."

Sherlock chuckled at his request, cocking his head and grinning.

"I shall, from this moment forward, endeavour to do my best to honour your request."

"Oh, God. I'm in love with a genius who has a grammatical obsession. Help!"

Sherlock held him tightly. "Come here my extraordinary, ordinary man who is anything but ordinary."

John giggled, capturing Sherlock's mouth.

* * *

That evening, as they packed for two weeks away, John seemed more relaxed, more himself again. Sherlock sensed that he was still on edge, but to a lesser degree. Occasionally the detective witnessed a distant look in his eyes, but not alarmingly so. It was more a deep-in-thought, wistful pose which he considered acceptable.

"Several jumpers for you, John. Wool socks, thermal underwear. Perhaps one or two button downs and trousers in case we decide to have dinner out one night."

"Yes, Sherlock," John said with a slight smirk. "I know how to pack for holiday."

"Of course."

John sidled up to him, kissing his cheek. "But thank you for the reminder."

Sherlock stared at John, his jaw dropped, mouth open. He didn't know what kind of response he expected, but this was not it. Not even close.

With a finger under Sherlock's chin, John lifted his jaw, effectively closing his mouth.

Sherlock wasn't certain at first if he should have been alarmed or pleased with John's lack of annoyed retort. He chose the latter until he gathered more data.

When Sherlock wandered into the loo to collect the items he'd need for his kit, John slipped into the room as well. Once everything was lined up neatly on the back of the toilet, ready for transport, John exited first, rummaging in their wardrobe for his doctor's bag with one hand while holding the other against his chest.

Now without the opiates for a good part of the day, the dosage after breakfast seemed to relieve John's pain until afternoon tea. With no symptoms except the dreams, Sherlock was satisfied with their withdrawal plans in the short term.

When their packing was completed, Sherlock reached out to take John's hand, leading him out to the sitting room.

"I called Angelo earlier for takeaway. Since your appetite has returned and you were able to eat Chinese with no trouble, I thought an Italian dinner would suit you. Nothing spicy yet, so I thought a vegetable lasagna? Is that acceptable for you?"

"Yes. That sounds good."

"Perfect."

John wandered to the window. "Your brother's security team is still out there. I saw one of them crossing the street and then returning with food from next door.

"Hmm. Yes, I noticed," Sherlock replied, joining the doctor at the window.

"Are we still sneaking out under cover of darkness?"

"Yes, Mycroft thinks it would be wise to err on the side of caution. He's sending a car for us very early, while still dark. Another car will pull up in front and two men resembling the two of us will depart with luggage in tow. Once gone, we will depart from the rear of the building to rendezvous with our Land Rover which will be at the rear of the Diogenes Club."

"Real cloak and dagger stuff, huh?"

"My brother does enjoy a good clandestine operation on occasion."

John nodded, leaning back against Sherlock's chest. "Yes, yes, he does at that. He's the original drama queen, after all."

With his arms round John's waist, the detective nibbled at the doctor's ear. "Quite."

John laughed, lifting his hand to pat the detective's cheek.

For the moment, Sherlock thought, all was well. Tomorrow would just have to take care of itself. He had something more important to attend to this evening.

* * *

After their takeaway dinner, John announced his intention to wait until an hour before retiring to take his pill.

"I want to enjoy being with you, instead of falling asleep in the middle of some stuff."

"Ah, the important stuff," Sherlock teased, earning a playful squeeze to his bicep.

"Shall I start a fire?"

"Yes, please, love. I'll be right back."

When John disappeared into the loo, Sherlock hurried down the hall to the bedroom. Two trips later he'd brought a woollen blanket, their duvet and every pillow from the bed and their wardrobe. He stood among the piled pillows, admiring his work.

"What are you doing?"

Startled at John's sudden appearance, he spun round to face him. "Nesting?"

"Nesting? That's not a word I would expect from you. I mean, since neither of us is pregnant and all. Oh, God, you're not, are you?"

Sherlock tilted his head to the side and smiled at him. "Droll, John, quite droll."

John's smile suggested that he liked the idea of nesting together.

Holding out his hand, Sherlock waggled his fingers and then his eyebrows in a suggestive beckoning. To his delight, John immediately complied, joining him amongst the gathering of pillows.

"Does all of this belong to us?"

"I borrowed the blanket from Mrs. Hudson this morning while you were in the shower. Everything else is ours."

"Oh, is that one of those air things under that sheet and all the pillows?"

"Yes, the floor is much too hard to lie on, so I ordered one of those inflatable mattresses on a rush order and it came yesterday. I hid it in your old room."

"Had it all planned out, did you?"

"Of course."

"Why am I not surprised?"

Sherlock grinned. "Your chair exchanged places with mine. Yours is heavier, so I could pile the pillows there without it moving. Come, John, let's try it out."

With one end of the mattress pushed against the front of John's chair and lengthwise across the width of the hearth, but distant enough away to be safe, it was a most comfortable nest.

John kicked off his shoes, hesitating as he approached the mattress. Cautiously lowering himself to his knees, he edged across its width to sit next to Sherlock.

John lay against the pillows, his head supported by Sherlock's shoulder in a nearly supine position. Sherlock lay closer to the fire, so he pulled the duvet over John from behind to keep him warm.

"This nest of yours is really comfortable, Sherlock."

"It's our nest, John."

"It was a brilliant idea, one of your best. Do you think we could stay here all night."

"If you are fine with it, we could try it, but if you are at all uncomfortable, we'll abandon our little nest and retire to the bedroom."

"Okay. I'll tell you if I have any twinges."

"That's my John."

John puckered up and kissed his cupid's bow. "Mmm, nice."

"You are..."

John grinned at him. "A prat? Tit? Wanker?"

Sherlock tightened his arm round John. "Perfect."

"Hardly."

"You are perfect for me, John Watson."

John blushed, and it was the most perfect thing Sherlock had ever seen.

Snuggling in together, they grew quiet, holding fast to each other. After some time, Sherlock turned his gaze from the fire to John.

"So you have no concerns about our trip tomorrow?"

"I'm looking forward to it and, we've already packed so-"

"I texted my brother earlier and he has everything planned for our departure."

"So we're still with the before dawn scenario?"

"Yes. We're to have our luggage in the garden no later than

four. We depart as soon as it's in the boot. He also insisted that we have a security detail in a nondescript car follow us to our destination. I have a list of dos and don'ts for our stay at the cottage."

"Personal body guards?"

"Yes."

"Perfect."

"I'm sorry, John."

John shrugged. "We should be used to having Mycroft interfere in every aspect of our lives. Well, all but one."

"John, I-"

John shook his head. "No, Sherlock. Don't. I don't want to know."

"John, as far as I am aware, he has not bugged our bedroom."

"As far as you're aware."

"Well, he hasn't installed night vision cameras in here. That being the case, he wouldn't see anything untoward in this light."

From the cushion above Sherlock's head came the unmistakeable sound of a vibrating phone. The detective glanced at the text, then threw it back onto the chair.

"What did he say?"

"Nothing."

John tugged on his hair. "Sherlock. Your brother would never send a text without a message. I don't think that's even possible."

"Ow! Never underestimate my brother's capabilities."

"So, what did he say?"

"Nothing important, John."

"Sherlock."

"Oh, for God's sake, John."

"Tell me or no more snuggling tonight. And I'll sleep on the sofa...alone."

"You wouldn't."

"Never underestimate my capabilities, Sherlock."

"John."

"Talk, Sherlock," he demanded, pinching his earlobe.

"Ow! You sound like Greg, and you're very abusive this evening."

"Stop putting me off, Sherlock. I have ways of making you talk."

"All right. All right. You've proven your point." Sherlock murmured.

For several long moments, Sherlock remained silent while he thought about what to tell John. Before he could push the words from his mouth, John tried to reach above his head to grab the phone from the chair. He cried out, pulling his arm back against his side.

"John?"

"Never mind, Sherlock. I don't want to argue about it. Just forget I said anything. Forget that I asked, okay?"

Sherlock held his doctor close, kissing his forehead, and then gave in. "Mycroft texted that there was no surveillance in our bedroom, nor has there been a night vision camera installed in the sitting room. He said our privacy is secure, nothing is visible at the present time."

"But he did hear us discussing night vision cameras?"

"Yes, he heard, and audio has since been turned off."

"I'll be sure to thank him the next time I see him," John mumbled against Sherlock's chest. "Or I'll just punch him in his considerably pointy nose as a preemptive strike for the next time he interferes.

"Oh, I don't think that's a good idea, John."

The doctor lifted his head to look at Sherlock. The detective grinned. "You might injure your hand."

"Brilliant."

At a quarter after midnight Sherlock awoke to John struggling to extricate himself from the duvet.

"Oh, shit, ow, Sherlock, help me, help. Please? Where are you?"

"John. It's okay," he assured in calm voice while holding him close to his chest.

Immediately still and heavy against him, and no longer struggling, John's labored breathing filled the sitting room.

"Dream?"

John nodded against his chest.

"Pain?"

"No, not really, mostly sore, like all the muscles are strained."

"Do you remember the dream?"

"Not much, only that I couldn't find you."

Sherlock kissed the doctor's cheek, which was warm and tasted of sweat. The aftermath of the dream, he determined when his fingers at John's belly came away cool to the touch.

When John pulled away, Sherlock let him go, flipping the duvet from him so he wouldn't stumble. John did anyway, but managed to steady himself on the mantel.

"Loo," he said in a too low voice.

"Okay. Do you want to go back to the bedroom?" Sherlock called after him.

John waved a hand over his shoulder. "No."

Sherlock scrambled from beneath his side of the duvet, tripped over his sagging pyjama pants, and stacked more wood on the fire.

When John returned, the fire was quite bright and warm. Sherlock looked up at him, patting the space beside him.

"I kept it warm for you."

"Ta, love," John whispered in a weary voice as he eased down to curl against Sherlock's side.

Just moments later, his breathing soft and steady, John was asleep. Sherlock curled the fingers of one hand over the top of John's head.

He stared into the flames for a long time.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

 **A Cottage for Two**

* * *

When the detective next opened his eyes, John's forehead lay against his jaw. "John?"

John grunted as he made a slight adjustment to his position. "I'm awake. I couldn't sleep anymore. I may be all slept out. The fire went out some time ago," he paused to yawn, "but the boiler has been threatening for the last hour."

"Pain?"

"Better, but I still want to take a half dose before the ride."

"A wise decision."

"We should be getting up now if we're going to meet your brother's deadline."

Sherlock passed his hand over his face. "I think I'll skip shaving this morning."

"I guess I'll do the same."

Sherlock kept his long arms around John. "Tea, toast and jam, yes?"

"Okay. Mrs. Hudson said something yesterday about fetching a container of nibbles from her table after I told her we'd be going away. Sherlock, you'll have to let me go if we're to be ready on time."

"Give me a moment, John?"

"Something wrong?"

"No, but we're forgetting something very important."

Sherlock held John firmly in his arms, tilted his head back and snogged his doctor breathless.

When John came back to himself, he opened his eyes to look up at Sherlock. "Morning, love, tea?"

"There you go, a bit of a brain cramp? Morning, love, and yes, please, to tea, but I will prepare it." The detective laughed, reluctantly letting go. "To be continued when we've settled in at the cottage."

"I look forward to it," John said with a grin as he struggled to free himself from the duvet. Sherlock set a well placed hand to John's bum and boosted him to his feet.

"Thank you, love," John said as he padded to the loo to brush his teeth.

* * *

Sherlock had just spread raspberry jam on toast when John leaned against the landing door. He turned from the table to acknowledge the doctor's presence.

"Tea's ready."

John's eyes travelled from the top of his head to his socks, so obvious that he liked what he saw that Sherlock felt his throat tighten and a flush race up his neck.

"John," he choked past his seriously constricted vocal apparatus. "Are you all right?"

John nodded, a bit odd to the motion, as if he wasn't sure if he was all right. "I...um...I don't think I've ever seen you in jeans before."

Sherlock smiled. "Go on. Are you sure? I'm certain I've worn them a time or two in your presence. Do I look all right in them?"

"You look...um." John paused, opened and closed his mouth three times without saying a word. He looked away suddenly, choosing a slice of toast and shoving half of it into his mouth.

"Extraordinary," he mumbled around his mouthful.

Sherlock pressed his lips to John's raspberry painted mouth. "Thank you, John."

Glancing down at Sherlock's jeans once more, John took his second toast and bit into it.

"Speechless, John?"

The doctor grinned shyly. "Oh, don't go looking for another compliment. One's all I've got."

"I'll take a kiss instead."

"All right," John whispered as he walked into Sherlock's arms, pushing up on his toes for the requested affection.

When it was finished, John was flushed and breathing heavily, but he managed to sigh, as only he could. "I'll do the washing up while...how are we going to get into Mrs. Hudson's flat without knocking on her door and waking her up?"

Momentarily concerned by John's speech and memory deficits, then tentatively deciding it was just a shift in his train of thought rather than a lapse, Sherlock placed a snapshot of the moment into a hold file in his Mind Palace for a more convenient time to analyse it.

"That's plan B. I still have the extra key she gave me yesterday," he said, as a gentle way of informing John without reminding him of what he had obviously forgotten.

"I assured her we'd be as quiet as possible and lock the door behind us." He was both relieved and concerned when John seemed not to notice.

"I'll help you carry the-"

"No, John. You may carry your small bag, but nothing heavier."

"I can carry one of the other smaller bags, Sherlock."

"John. Arguing will get you nothing. You have made good progress, you shouldn't jeopardise that to bolster your ego."

John stared at him, and Sherlock knew at once he'd stepped over the line. "Sorry. That was unfair. You have a healthy ego."

"Sherlock? Shut up and don't apologise. Let's just pretend you didn't say anything and move on."

John searched the sitting room with his gaze, strode to the bedroom, returning moments later, and walked straight to the landing.

Apparently, the real John Watson, as opposed to the fearful one, was trying to re-emerge from his pain-filled, traumatic event. Saying anything that could be interpreted as an criticism was just not on at the moment. Sherlock vowed to check his words until John once again understood that they were not intended to hurt.

As Sherlock turned off the lights, set the luggage on the landing, and secured the doors, John stood off to the side, watching. He neither tried to help nor spoke. His anger swirled around him like a dark cloud.

It was at that moment Sherlock noticed his violin case cradled against John's shoulder and remembered that days ago the doctor had asked to hear his new composition. Sherlock kept any comment to himself.

At the halfway point on the stairs, Sherlock glanced over his shoulder to be certain John was behind him. With the duffle over his right shoulder, and the violin clutched against the same side of his chest, each step seemed to pain him, for he held his hand against his left side.

"John?"

"Fine."

Sherlock turned his face away from John to hide his smile. How much would he have to grovel to get back into John's good graces? No matter, whatever he had to do, he would do.

Once safely at the bottom, Sherlock set down the luggage and stepped into John's personal space. Without a word, John pressed his face against Sherlock's chest.

"I love you, John. I would never intentionally hurt you. I hope you know that."

Still John said nothing.

This would be harder than he thought.

Minutes later, walking slowly and carefully through Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, they were surprised by her sudden appearance.

"Off now, are you?"

"Did we wake you?" Sherlock asked.

"No, dear. I had just come from the loo when I heard your key in the lock. I decided to give you a proper send-off."

Mrs. Hudson stepped forward to hug both of them, but held on a bit longer with John.

"John? Are you all right?"

"He's fine, Mrs. Hudson, just still half-asleep."

John smiled. "Yes, I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson. Don't worry."

Sherlock edged toward the door. "We need to go, Mrs. Hudson. Our car is waiting."

"All right, dear. Here are the nibbles I promised. I hope you have a wonderful holiday. Text me when you arrive."

John smiled, holding fast to the small box. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. You take care of yourself while we're gone. Call us anytime."

Outside, Sherlock turned to grin at John. "That was tedious."

John silently followed through the gate, bumping into Sherlock when he suddenly stopped.

"What are you doing here, Mycroft?"

"Good morning, Sherlock. I'm on my way to the Diogenes myself so I decided it would be advantageous to ride along."

"How fortunate for us. Thank you for arranging the transport, Mycroft, but your silence would be appreciated."

As the driver loaded their luggage into the boot, John climbed in while Sherlock argued with his brother. When the detective finally slid in ahead of Mycroft, he checked the time on his watch. Right on time.

John stared out the window, fair head resting against the glass. The detective reached across to lay his hand over John's. The good doctor didn't pull away, but neither did he hold on.

Mycroft caught his eye and shook his head. On this one occasion, Sherlock took his brother's advice and left John to his thoughts.

* * *

As he'd expected, the Diogenes Club was dark when they arrived. His brother removed his phone from his breast pocket to glance at the screen.

"The diversion is underway, Sherlock. You and John need to leave now."

John was out of the car and on his way to the Land Rover before their luggage was transferred from the sedan. Sherlock watched him from a short distance away, noting that his body language shouted his anger as he climbed into the passenger seat with his duffle bag and the violin.

The detective slipped behind the wheel and started the engine. After a mock salute to his brother, he turned away and glanced across at John, resting his hand on his arm.

"John?"

The doctor stared out the window, silent and angry. So, no conversation then. It looked to be a long drive to Dorset.

* * *

The first time Sherlock pulled over to the side of the road to study the map while surreptitiously watching his passenger, John didn't react. He contemplated an attempt to open a conversation, but in the end decided to let John work through his anger on his own. Sooner or later, John always came around.

Keeping his eyes on the road seemed to be the best course of action. Whether John was aware of it wasn't worth a guess. And he didn't guess. He smiled discreetly. That he didn't guess was a joke between the two of them, one that often got a good laugh from John, but at the moment, John's wasn't laughing at much of anything.

The second time Sherlock pulled over, it was to stop for coffee. John remained in the car while the detective stepped inside the small convenience store. When he returned, John still stared out the window. Setting the coffees in the holders between the seats, he drove on.

John ignored his coffee for quite awhile. When he finally picked it up, Sherlock smiled, an inward cheer filling him with warmth.

It wasn't tea, but it helped.

* * *

The sun was up and fully visible by the time they arrived in Dorset County. There he saw for the first time the nearly identical Land Rover following them.

Just as Sherlock thought himself a fool for not observing it, John spoke for the first time in an age.

"All the time we've been on the road, there has been a Land Rover following us. Is that your brother's security?"

Sherlock felt relief at the resumption of conversation. "I believe so. I only just sighted them. Good eye, John."

"You've already apologised. Don't spoil it."

Sherlock grinned, glancing sideways at the love of his life, who was looking back at him with a pained expression in his eyes.

"Am I forgiven?"

John fell into silence again for several minutes. Sherlock let it go. "It's not far now. Just a few miles."

The only sound breaking through the silence was that of the Land Rover's engine, but inside Sherlock's head, John's anger roared all the louder.

* * *

The directions he'd been given by the property management company were so detailed, it was impossible to get lost, even on the winding, rural road. When he pulled the Land Rover up to the gate, the guard, whom he recognised as a member of his brother's personal security detail, greeted him as though they were strangers.

"Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Carlton," he said, his eyes sparkling with barely concealed humor. "Mr. Holmes sends his regards upon your arrival. I'll inform him that you are here once you're inside the cottage."

Sherlock committed the man's face and bearing to memory in the hallway leading to the John Watson room of his Mind Palace, an image he'd delete the moment they returned to London. "Thank you."

"You have the details of the security team overseeing your holiday?"

"Yes."

"Very well, sir, you may continue to the cottage. This is the remote for the garage. We prefer you keep the vehicle out of sight, and in the evening, cover the windows and lock the doors."

"I understand."

"One last thing, Mr. Carlton."

"And that is?"

"Mr. Holmes suggests that if you and Mrs. Carlton wish to take a moonlight stroll, please call the gatehouse and the security on duty at the cottage will stay close. This area is very secluded and deeply wooded and it's very easy to get lost. You will have total privacy otherwise."

"I don't think we'll be taking a moonlight stroll, as you call it, but if we change our minds, we'll be sure to let you know."

"Very well, sir. Proceed to the cottage."

As Sherlock negotiated the narrow path through the gate, he observed the dense wooded areas to each side of the long driveway. Doubt clouded his mind as he approached the cottage, wondering if this was the safest place for John, given his injured state, no matter how much improved.

A quick glance at John was all he needed to know that he, too, observed the secluded areas. As though John had read his mind, the doctor sat forward, peering into the trees.

"It's good I brought my Sig along."

Startled, Sherlock stopped the Land Rover to look over at him.

Of course that was what John had retrieved from the bedroom.

"Why?"

"Too many trees, too many places to hide."

Sherlock nodded his understanding. "We have no credible evidence that we are in danger, John."

"Right." His doctor sniffed and pursed his lips in the way that was classic Captain John Watson. "Then why all the subterfuge? And the security detail all the way out here?"

"Point taken."

John continued to survey the trees as they drove into the circular drive. Pressing the remote, Sherlock tapped his foot at the unhurried rise of the door. When it finally rose enough to drive in, Sherlock centered the Land Rover in the space large enough for three cars.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Sherlock pocketed the remote, climbing out quickly to circle the car to John's door.

He opened it, to John's obvious surprise, taking the doctor's arm. John didn't protest, but frowned at him.

"I thought you might be a bit stiff and sore from the drive."

John's frown softened and fled, replaced by no expression at all. For the first time in a long while, Sherlock was uncertain how to proceed. Releasing John's arm, he stepped round him toward the rear of the Land Rover where their belongings waited. John stopped him, holding on to his wrist.

Sherlock waited, observing John's downturned head and unsteady breathing.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. It was wrong of me to be angry with you. I know you well enough to know you don't intend to be hurtful."

"It's all right, John."

"No, it's not all right. It was selfish of me to start our holiday in anger. Forgive me?"

Sherlock stepped closer, raising John's head with a curled finger under his chin. "Of course I forgive you. I'm sorry for not being mindful of my words. You don't deserve my inconsiderate behavior. I am sorry, John. Truly. Will you forgive me?"

"Always, love," John said, lifting himself on his toes to offer his lips.

Sherlock hummed as they shared a chaste kiss. "No more apologies or forgiveness needed. Our holiday begins now."

"All right."

"Here is the second set of cottage keys, John," Sherlock said, folding the keys into his palm. "You carry the small bag and the Strad as before and I will struggle with the rest."

"Sherlock, one of them has wheels. Let me take that one, please, love?"

Sherlock smiled at him, determined not to make another mistake.

"Of course, thank you, John."

As they approached the door to the cottage, John mumbled to himself.

"I'm sorry?"

The doctor huffed, then grinned. "I'm fine now and I think I like it better when you call me your idiot. Don't be so polite that I don't recognise you. This may be the second, and hopefully the last time I have to say it."

Sherlock kissed behind John's ear. "Perhaps later I will honor your request."

John fumbled with the key, missing the keyhole three times before he unlocked and pushed open the door.

"Brilliant," he sputtered, his eyes blown wide at the sight before them.

"You approve?"

"Don't be an idiot, Sherlock."

Sherlock chuckled, following John's gaze.

The interior of of the cottage was a study in fine cherry wood, highly polished floors and intermittent white cream walls. Tastefully decorated with modest antiques and recognizable framed prints, as well as a few he presumed were created by the owner, hung on the walls.

Country charm, Sherlock decided, much like his parent's country manor. He liked it. By John's smile, he was pleased by

his choice as well.

The living area flowed into the kitchen through an archway.

With all the amenities they would ever need, they went in search of the bedroom to store the luggage for later.

"Oh," John whispered as they opened the cherry wood door.

The bedroom was more than twice the size of theirs at Baker Street. Once again the cherry wainscoting with pale wallpaper above complemented the furniture.

"The bed is huge, Sherlock."

"Yes, John," Sherlock whispered against his ear. "It is," he continued when he gazed into John's eyes, suggestively waggling his eyebrows.

John giggled. "Easy, genius, don't injure yourself."

Sherlock pretended to pout, sulk, until finally he had to laugh.

"I think we'll sleep well tonight."

"We'll have a go at the fireplace, yes?"

"Or course. That's your favorite addiction of late."

John smirked. "No, that would be you."

"I glanced at the dining area as we passed. I think I'd rather eat in the kitchen. Let's go back and have a look," Sherlock said, pulling on John's arm to get him to follow.

"Yes."

"It reminds me of your parents' home, the kitchen, I mean. It's friendlier, not so formal as the dining room."

"I agree. My parents' home is comfortable, like Baker Street. It's warm and inviting and one never feels out of place there."

"Yeah, that's just what it is, Sherlock."

"Would you like to unpack now? Or perhaps wander about peeking into cupboards a bit? The description said there was a small library and sitting room on the second floor."

John pressed his hand to his side, sitting down on the edge of a kitchen chair.

"Would you mind if I lie down for a few minutes? It's throbbing some and I don't want it to get ahead of me."

Sherlock took John's smaller hand in his as they retraced their steps to the bedroom. "That's fine, John. Why don't you rest while I unpack for both of us."

"All right. Will you join me after? You must be weary from the drive."

Sherlock smiled. "A bit. I'll join you when I'm finished."

When their luggage was empty and everything they'd brought with them neatly stored away, Sherlock glanced around the room for his violin, the one item John had held onto for the entire drive. It lay on the antique writing desk in its open case, carefully placed to avoid the sun streaming through the window. Beside it lay John's weapon.

Taking in the sight of John, recumbent on the duvet that was the color of his doctor's eyes, his heart skipped in his chest. He felt John's eyes on him as he crossed the room to lay his hand on his violin, once his most prized tangible possession, but no longer. The instrument, though still dearly loved, now held a distant second to the man who lay an arm's length away.

It seemed an insult for him to place John in the company of an inanimate object, or consider him a possession, but he had no other person in his life who meant so much as John Watson. His doctor had forgiven him for deeds Sherlock now deeply regretted, surely he would forgive this one word. Perhaps belonging to each other was a better term.

John stretched his left arm across the duvet toward Sherlock, beckoning him with waggling fingers. Sherlock accepted his invitation, toeing out of his shoes to lie on John's right side.

"I miss you when you aren't here next to me," John said with a catch in his voice. "I want you to know, to understand that no matter what I say, no matter how I'm feeling, whether I am angry with you or not, you are my whole world. Even when you drive me round the twist, I will not let you go and I wouldn't trade you for the most exquisite violin in the world."

"John-"

"Hush. I mean it. The Strad is absolutely beautiful, but it's just a _thing_ , you know? You are a beautiful person inside and out, and for some unknown reason, you've chosen to love me. I will never understand why, but I will always be humbled that you do."

Sherlock gazed at this brilliant, amazing puzzle of a man who appeared to read his mind...and loved him even more than he'd thought himself capable. Again.

Rather than spoil the moment, Sherlock remained silent, content to hold John in his arms, and to receive the kisses gifted by an impatient, bossy mouth.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

 **Sherlock's Diminutive Hero**

* * *

 **A/N:** Working in a befuddled state. I've proofread three times. Apologies if I still missed some things.

* * *

"Sherlock, we didn't bring any food with us. Are we going out to eat or takeaway, if there is such a thing here?" John called from the loo as he washed and dried his hands.

Silence greeted his query, causing an uncomfortable turning of his stomach. Panic rose in his gut, his heart skipping a few beats as he padded down the hallway to the kitchen. He shook his head, silently berating himself as weak and pathetic because he didn't want Sherlock to hear.

"Sherlock?"

"John!" The detective shouted, as his head popped up above the farm table in front of the fridge, giving John a fright.

"Christ, Sherlock. What're you shouting about?"

"John! Sorry. We're saved. We have food! The fridge is filled with all kinds of things. The freezer, too. Why would the owners do that?"

John's heart and stomach returned to their normal function as he leaned against the table. "Are there artichokes in there?"

Sherlock looked at him with disgust, the bridge of his nose rumpled in that adorable way he had, and from his mouth issued a very emphatic " _EW."_

"So, no artichokes, then?"

Suddenly it struck Sherlock.

And then John.

"Mycroft," they said in unison.

Sherlock frowned a bit, John grinned, and they both laughed.

"John, there's fish in here. Wait, a note that says 'fresh today.'

John rounded the table to look over his shoulder. "Salmon.

Knowing your brother-"

"It's from Scotland. He has a taste for salmon with a brogue."

John laughed, hissing at a sudden stab of pain. Sherlock was immediately at his side, curling his long fingers over his shoulder, but the pain disappeared as quickly as it struck.

John patted Sherlock's hip. "It's gone now. I'm okay. Just a twinge. So we're okay for dinner. I'll take care of the fish if you'll make a salad? There are plenty of things for a fresh dressing."

Sherlock nodded. "I can do that."

John went up on his toes to kiss Sherlock's cheek. "Thank you, love."

Sherlock rummaged in the fridge again while John looked on with a smile. "John! I found cheese. And we have bread. Cheese on toast with a cold glass of milk. Yes? For lunch? Please? Please, John, Please?"

Amused by Sherlock's childlike enthusiasm, John hugged him about the neck. When the detective's arms came round him, they clung to each other for long minutes.

* * *

Just before lunch, Sherlock found John where he'd settled to read beside the window and wriggled between his knees to thoroughly kiss him.

"John, I need to show you something."

John set aside the magazine he'd been perusing to take Sherlock's hand and, with some stiffness, rose to his feet to walk beside him.

At the far end of the cottage, just beyond the laundry, the detective guided John through a door to the outside. They stepped out onto a small patio with a wooden pergola at the far end. Warmed by the direct sun, the area still had a few hardy plants, and vines, but was otherwise empty except for three benches.

"We could bring chairs and a small table out here. Enough to have our lunch?"

Sherlock's energy was so infectious John didn't have the heart to disagree. It was as much Sherlock's holiday as it was his.

* * *

For all its simplicity, lunch on the sparsely set tea table with two accompanying chairs was for them far more intimate than any upscale London restaurant.

John reached across the table to place his hand over Sherlock's while the detective chewed and swallowed the last bite of his cheese on toast.

"Good."

John smiled. "Simple, but elegant, shared with the man I love. I can't think of anything I'd rather do at this moment."

When Sherlock's cheeks pinked, John wasn't certain if it was the sun on his fair skin, or his comment, but he liked to think he was responsible for the blush.

Too soon Sherlock gathered the dishes onto the tea tray. John decided it was a treat they would have to repeat on the days the weather cooperated. It was too good to abandon.

John rose to his feet to look past the patio wall at the towering trees that surrounded the secluded end of the cottage.

As he stood there listening to the birds sing, he was also aware of the sounds of small animals scurrying through the undergrowth. Even though the sun was high, warm and inviting, he shivered when a sudden shift in the wind unnerved him. The birds ceased their chirping and everything round him seemed to pause. John squinted, staring into the trees, but noticed nothing awry.

Although John sensed, rather than heard Sherlock's approach, he startled.

"John?" Sherlock swooped in to cover his mouth with his warm lips, chasing away John's discomfort.

"I adore cheese on toast," he said, nuzzling John's neck. "But I adore you more."

John couldn't articulate his feelings at that moment as an odd dizziness washed over him. He closed his eyes, dropping his head so Sherlock wouldn't see. The moment it passed, he looked up and smiled, knowing that anything he could say would catch in his throat.

"Love you, too." It was the best he could do. He hoped it was enough.

* * *

Knowing Sherlock would cut short their vacation if he knew, John began a concerted effort to conceal the episode, and forced himself to relax. He'd taken a half-dose when the ache in his side threatened to rob him of precious time spent with his mad detective, even though he knew that by evening Sherlock would discover his deception.

He was aware Sherlock watched him from the chair beside the fireplace, surreptitiously, of course, using a skill at which he was brilliantly adept. It was akin to being scrutinized by Mycroft, but gentler, with a lot less arrogance. And a lot more concern.

John avoided the Sherlockian scrutiny as much as he could by keeping his eyes averted or his head turned. Sherlock remained silent for several minutes longer before closing the journal he'd pretended to read for the last hour. John wasn't as bad at deduction as Sherlock often told him.

Watching the detective on his periphery, and waiting for Sherlock's pronouncement of his guilt, he knew the moment Sherlock deduced him. Resigned to it, John sighed heavily.

Still, Sherlock said nothing, but the moment he steepled his fingers beneath his chin, and narrowed those all-seeing eyes, John knew time had run out.

Like a child awaiting his punishment, John presented himself in front of Sherlock, hands in his pockets, head lowered as if in supplication, and waited. He could feel Sherlock's gaze on him, but couldn't bear to see the disappointment in his eyes.

After what felt like an eternity, the detective's long fingers fastened themselves to his hips and pulled him down onto his lap. Held firmly with arms round him, his back to Sherlock's chest, John let his head rest against a strong shoulder. Lips against his ear raised an involuntary shiver that shook John from head to toe. Sherlock's arms round him tightened.

"Tell me, John," Sherlock murmured against his ear.

John huffed, more from the knowledge that he'd tried to do the impossible-keep something important from Sherlock-and had known better, but tried anyway, than from his inevitable failure.

"I took a half dose this morning because the nerves were firing again. I've been experiencing vertigo."

"I know, John. I count them every morning. It's okay. I just don't want you to take one and forget to tell me."

"I didn't forget. I just didn't tell you."

Sherlock rested his chin on John's shoulder. "Why?"

"I didn't want you to think I was weak."

"That word is not one that I would ever apply to you."

"Maybe you should."

"No, you are the strongest man I know."

"You make it sound like I'm some kind of hero." John laughed. "I'm

not a hero, Sherlock. You said yourself heroes don't exist." He tried to pull away, but Sherlock wouldn't let him go.

"Not a hero, then, but a man with strength to which a good percentage of the men in the world would pale in comparison."

John closed his eyes and rolled his head from side to side.

"Doctor John Hamish Watson, Captain, retired, of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers and surgeon extraordinaire, you would be my hero, if such an title existed. The definition of a hero is a person who is admired or idealized for courage, outstanding achievements or noble qualities. In my opinion, you are uniquely qualified."

"You are a daft bugger."

"But very honest," Sherlock added, kissing his cheek.

"Except when you lie," John said, leaning into the kiss.

"Which I rarely do any more, and never to you."

"No, you just lie by omission."

"Perhaps on occasion, but eventually you always hear the truth."

"Yeah, after the fact is sometimes a problem."

Sherlock applied an open-mouthed, sloppy kiss to his neck, which made John squirm.

"John."

John stood, offering his hand to Sherlock, and led him to the bedroom _._

"My diminutive hero."

* * *

Through trial and error and soft laughter, pleasure and release came like a rolling tide for both of them. Afterward, they lay in each other's arms and slept the sleep of the deeply sated.

When John woke, it was to Sherlock cleaning him with a soft, warm flannel and an equally soft towel. Still naked, Sherlock leaned over him, covering his lips with tiny, chaste kisses.

"Love you."

"I know," Sherlock whispered against his lips. "Tell me about your dizziness?"

"It was nothing really, just a wave coming over me and then it was gone. I don't know how to explain it any other way."

"Hm."

"What?"

"Nothing, just thinking."

"Thinking about?"

"It's probably nothing, but at least I am aware of it now. Promise you won't keep it from me if it happens again?"

"Yes, I promise, Sherlock, but only because if I don't, you'll be asking me if I'm feeling all right every five minutes for the rest of our holiday."

Sherlock smiled. "Only the best care and concern for my doctor."

Easing out from under the duvet, John dressed slowly, aware at once of a nondescript prickling at the back of his neck. When he stretched and shrugged his shoulders back, much to the chagrin of his healing flesh, it fled. John rubbed the offending spot for good measure.

Sherlock, standing at the window, his back to John as he pulled his shirt over his head, didn't see. Unless, of course, he'd grown eyes in the back of his head in the last few minutes. With the Holmes brothers, very fews things were impossible, but far more were probable, and that was the God's honest truth. John shook his head and grinned at his secret thoughts.

Leaving his trainers beside the bed, John padded across the wooden floor to the loo, complaining to himself that he couldn't wait to eliminate all the visits.

* * *

John prepared a dinner of baked salmon and wild rice with a salad that Sherlock actually enjoyed. He praised John's skill at preparing a delicious meal, which John rewarded with a long, deep kiss.

Sherlock pronounced John to be still glowing from their earlier lovemaking; John blushed and then laughed at the detective's silliness, but inside he was warmer than if he'd been standing beside a roaring fire.

"And I quote Ludwig Wittgenstein: 'Never stay up on the barren heights of cleverness, but come down into the green valleys of silliness.'"

"Well, Mr. Witt...Witt-Ludwig whatsit...got that right. It suits you up and down the street."

"Ah, another soldierly colloquialism, my dear Watson?"

"No," John said, holding up his fork level with his ear and twirling it in his fingers. "Variation on Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock snorted, a sound he rarely made. John giggled, which brought on the detective's deep chuckle, which in turn gave John hiccoughs. Sherlock came round the back of his chair to pat his back. It did nothing to chase away John's painful hiccoughs, but when Sherlock pressed his thumbs into the muscles at his shoulders, the sudden burst of pain and the change in his breathing successfully cured the spasms in his diaphragm.

"Nepal?"

"Mycroft. I used to get hiccoughs a lot when I was a child."

As tears streamed down his cheeks, John drew in several deep, equally painful breaths. In a gesture that endeared the detective more to him each time it occurred, Sherlock tenderly swiped away his tears.

After completing the meal between bursts of quiet laughter, they contentedly sipped their tea, gone cold from all the interruptions.

Soon after, John, refusing to use the dishwasher, did the washing up while Sherlock dried and put everything into the proper places.

As John dried his hands on the tea towel, Sherlock gathered him into a warm embrace.

"Thank you for that delicious dinner. And I am sorry that I caused your hiccoughs. Are you all right now?"

John smiled, pulling Sherlock down to kiss the tip of his nose.

"A bit sore, but otherwise perfectly fine."

"You could have more painkillers now, if you need them."

"No, I think if I just rest for a time, it will go away."

"No dizziness?"

"No," John whispered, gently nipping at that gorgeous upper lip he loved so much.

Sherlock moaned deep in his throat. "John."

"Sherlock?"

"I love you, John Hamish Watson."

"I will never tire of hearing you say that."

* * *

As evening drew near, both men began what would become a ritual for them for the time they occupied the cottage. Together they moved from room to room to secure the cottage for the night. Because he was forbidden to help by Mr. Consulting Detective, John watched and sighed as Sherlock shuttered the kitchen windows and turned off all but a soft light beneath the dish cupboard.

The window blinds in the dining room were more to John's comfort level. He left all the lights off simply because it was never used. Pale Roman blinds in the bedroom were easier still. Since there were six small windows on one side of the room, they worked together. Sherlock stretched far above his head to pull the drapes together for more privacy.

For the first time they explored the second floor, inspecting the locks on the windows as they had on the first and covering the windows. With so few windows at Baker Street, neither minded being closed in.

As unremarkable as the first floor was spectacularly dressed, they remained on the second floor only long enough to peer into each of the other four smaller bedrooms.

Sherlock led the way down the stairs, and for several minutes John watched him walk round, studying certain items for what reason, only Sherlock knew. To anyone else, it would appear to be just curiosity, but to John, it was much more.

Sherlock was content in this place and it had been only a handful of hours. Regardless of the circumstances under which they had left Baker Street and the security detail surrounding them at the moment, and, John was certain, the hidden surveillance cameras installed by The British Government, i.e. Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock was more at ease since before 'the incident.'

Without The Work, Sherlock had not been bored. That was a first for him. John didn't understand completely, but he wasn't about to upset the balance. He vowed to enjoy it for as long as it lasted, whether that turned out to be the entire fortnight or just a few days. As long as Sherlock was happy, John was happy.

"John?"

Startled from his thoughts, John realised he stood in the middle of the room, staring into empty space. Sherlock's hands found his shoulders, holding him firmly in place.

"I'm okay. Just thinking."

"Good, that's good," Sherlock said, rubbing his hands up and down John's arms.

John smiled up at him just as another wave of dizziness overtook him. It was brief enough for him to be able to hide it, but his guilt for breaking his promise to Sherlock lay as firmly on his shoulders as Sherlock's hands.

"So, John, what would you like to do this evening? I found the television, if you'd like to watch something. We could read, or just sit and stare at each other, that would be boring, would that be boring? Maybe for you, but not for me. I could gather data about you to add to your room in my mind palace."

John shook his head. "Slow down, Sherlock. We have plenty of time. This is a vacation, not a race. Are you sure you aren't bored?"

Sherlock held John's face in his elegant hands. "John, don't be an idiot. I could never be bored when I'm with you."

"Thanks, I think."

"You're welcome."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"For tonight, could we just cuddle? Maybe we could have tea and toast before bed?"

"All right."

John gazed deep into Sherlock's eyes. "If you have something else you'd rather do, that's okay, too."

"No, John. Cuddling is good as long as we can also snuggle and kiss. Snogging a bit would be good, too. Lip dancing, sucking face, also fine. More than fine."

John laughed, hugging him tight. "Except for the snuggle part, I think all the other words mean the same."

Sherlock wore his most serious face. "You can never have too much of a good thing."

* * *

As promised, cuddling, snuggling and kissing continued throughout the evening. Snogging inspired them to move to the bedroom. Tea was forgotten in the heat of the moment, not to be remembered until long after, when they were still wrapped round each other, sticky and sweaty and trading sweet little kisses that made them sigh.

Much later, just after midnight, Sherlock held John's hand as they stumbled to the bath. Inside the jetted shower with its glass and tile walls, Sherlock used his favorite gel to wash John in every crease and crevice. Kneeling on a folded towel in front of John, he drew his fingers over and round the stitches with tender strokes. With a focused attention unlike anyone John had ever known, Sherlock performed an up close and personal examination of his laceration.

"Good, good, oh, a little redness here, but healthy tissue soldiers invading the area."

John closed his eyes while holding fast to the dark curls on the top of Sherlock's head. When the now familiar syncope stuck without warning, he swayed, only able to shield it because Sherlock was otherwise occupied. Locking his knees to keep himself from falling, he allowed the intimate evaluation to continue.

Sherlock slipped his hands round John's thighs and held him close, pressing a kiss to his belly.

"What's the prognosis, Dr. Holmes?" John asked once his head was clear again.

"A full and proper recovery, with time and continued care."

"So everything looks good?"

"Everything is magnificent, John, you are a perfect specimen. Yes, indeed," Sherlock said, clearing his throat. "Perfect."

"Oh, well, I'm pleased to be one of your successful experiments. Bring your mind up here, please, and everything else, too."

At the gentle teasing, Sherlock grinned, lifting himself from his knees.

"My turn now."

"John, that isn't necessary. I'm perfectly relaxed from our earlier...um, lovemaking."

"Made your eyes roll back in your head, did I?"

"Yes, John. It was exquisite. You were exquisite...you _are_ exquisite."

"I was, wasn't I?" Imagine what it will be like when I am fully healed?"

"Modesty becomes you, John."

John laughed aloud, his giggles surrounding them in the shower enclosure. Sherlock smiled his special soft smile that made him shiver.

Reaching for the shower gel, John filled his palm not nearly enough for the long, slender body in front of him. Beginning with his neck, John lathered the smooth, pale skin to his hips, his bum and his most intimate places.

Sherlock's gaze remained on him, never once leaving his face. When John grimaced at bending to lather the muscular legs that seemed to go on forever, Sherlock held his hands to ease the doctor's drop to his knees. Holding his balance with one hand on John's head and the other on the wall, Sherlock allowed only a quick swipe over each of his feet before pulling John upright.

"Thank you," Sherlock whispered, gathering John against him. John rested his head against the detective's strong chest, and as the water began to cool, he raised his head to accept a gentle kiss.

So relaxed that his legs quivered, John didn't protest when Sherlock wrapped him in a bath sheet to keep him warm. Once dry and hurriedly dressed, the detective quickly dried John and helped him into his pyjama bottoms and T-shirt.

Waiting patiently on the bench against the wall, John watched through bleary eyes while Sherlock rummaged in the cabinet to unearth a hair dryer to use on his dark curls.

Despite the whine of the dryer, John closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. He told himself he was just resting his eyes until some minutes later, the room was silent and Sherlock's finger gently caressed his cheek.

"Time for bed, John. Do you need-"

John yawned, touching their foreheads together. "No, I'm good, just really knackered right now."

Sherlock smiled at him. "Can you stand long enough to brush your teeth?"

"Yes."

Desperate to lie down and sleep, John brushed his teeth quickly, then dropped to the toilet seat and waited for Sherlock to finish his nightly routine.

Minutes later, as they slipped beneath the duvet, John hoped there would be no dreams to mar their first night on holiday. Lying on his back to allow his bones to slip into a comfortable position, John opened his eyes, expecting the bedroom to be pitch black because they'd covered all the windows. Instead, a soft glow from the odd little lamp in one corner of the room illuminated just enough to cast shadows on the walls.

Startled for a moment by those ominous shadows, John reached for Sherlock's hand.

"Right here, John. I'll always be right here beside you."

Turning his head toward the detective, John waited for his eyes to adjust. Sherlock's beloved face materialised just a breath away. In an instant, John was wrapped in Sherlock's long arms and legs and held close, his head cradled against a warm, pale neck.

"Sleep, John. I'll be on watch. No one will hurt you," Sherlock whispered against his ear.

Certain there was no imminent danger, and content to know his Sig was within reach, John wriggled closer, ignoring the pull to his chest.

"Oh."

"What?"

"Hiding a gun under your pillow is not the safest, you know."

John held his breath for a moment. "It's fine, Sherlock."

"If you're certain."

"It was Mycroft, wasn't it?"

"As usual."

"Insufferable, tedious prat."

"Finally, someone agrees with me."

"Always have, just kept it a secret."

"You're rubbish at keeping secrets, John."

"I hope the surveillance camera is pointed away from the bed."

"It was the first thing I checked."

John nuzzled his face into Sherlock's neck, settling down with a soft sigh. "Sherlock?"

"Yes, my love?"

"Do I really have a room in your Mind Palace?"

"A wing, John, you have a wing."

"Huh."


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

 **The Untitled Composition**

* * *

Still curled around John, Sherlock woke slowly, reaching for his cell beneath his pillow to check his text messages.

All is well. Enjoy your day -MH

"Everything okay?" John mumbled into his pillow.

"As of five this morning."

John stretched as much as he was able. "So, no credible threat?"

"No, but security is tight. Brother is on watch."

"What Mycroft level are we at present?"

"Six, John, the highest there is."

"By tomorrow, I'm sure we'll be an eight," John quipped around a yawn.

"Mmm," Sherlock mumbled, pressing a kiss to the hollow of John's throat.

* * *

An hour later a knock at the front door startled them both. Unpredictably, John disappeared down the hall toward the bedroom. He returned moments later with Captain Watson firmly in place, no doubt with his service weapon in his waistband.

"Morning."

"Good morning," Sherlock greeted the man they'd met upon arriving the day before.

"Mr. Holmes directed us to hand deliver a copy of each of the newspapers available. Every morning."

"Bossy sort, my brother, isn't he?"

The man smiled briefly.

"Don't worry, I won't tell him you think he's a pompous arse."

The man opened his mouth to speak, but snapped it shut, saying nothing.

When the detective extended his hand, the man responded with a strong grip. Sherlock liked that.

"Sherlock. And you are?" he enquired just as John stepped to his side.

"Craig. Daniel Craig."

"Good. It's good to know your name should I need to call out to you on an occasion."

"Right," the man said.

John looked up at Sherlock, grinned, then turned back to the other man, taking the newspapers from him.

"Bet you get a lot of comments about your name."

The man rolled his eyes. "You have no idea."

"Well, if it's any consolation, you don't look like him at all and you don't appear to be as grumpy."

"Thanks for that."

Sherlock looked from one to the other, but said no more. His face, however, clearly asked: ' _What? What have I missed?'_

John leaned forward, partially covered his mouth and jerked his head back toward the detective. "Not much for films."

"Refreshing."

John held out his hand. "John Watson."

"I read your blog. It's good."

"Yeah?"

"Very good."

"Thanks."

"Well, I have to get back to the gate."

"Good to meet you," John called to Craig's retreating figure.

The man stopped abruptly, retracing a few steps. "I forgot to tell you last night about the intercom. There's an unmarked key on each of the phones that connects to the gate. If there's anything you need, anything at all, just press the button. If you don't speak, it means trouble."

"Good to know."

"Mr. Holmes was quite annoyed that it wasn't mentioned upon your arrival."

Never one to miss an opportunity to disparage his brother, Sherlock snapped out of his intense need to know what John knew that he didn't know just long enough to reply. "It does him good to be angry on occasion. It dispels the evil from his black heart."

Craig nodded, then turned away, but not before Sherlock saw the grin the man didn't bother to hide.

Sherlock pounced on John before he could close the door.

"Explain."

John took his hand and smiled sweetly.

"Daniel Craig," John said, pressing his index finger to Sherlock's lips, "no, not this Daniel Craig, is a film actor. James Bond? You do know who James Bond is?"

"Of course I know who James Bond is. I'm not an idiot, John."

John rolled his eyes. "No, you're a gorgeous genius who is not knowledgeable about subjects that don't interest you, more correctly, have no use for you in your Work. So, now you know. And now that you know, you can delete it."

"I already have."

"And I was just getting used to the new Sherlock Holmes."

"What?"

"Nothing, Sherlock, just muttering to myself."

Sherlock huffed. "Well, carry on then."

John stared at Sherlock, shook his head and walked away.

"Be sure to put your gun back under your pillow."

"Yes, darling," John called over his shoulder as he disappeared down the hall toward the bedroom.

Sherlock dropped his head in defeat, once again realising too late that he'd probably been rude. Probably annoyed John as well.

"John!"

The bedroom was quiet when he strode in, and it was empty.

"John?"

After a search that lasted several uncomfortable minutes, he located the doctor in the library on the second floor. He crouched beside the chair where John sat staring out the window.

"Sorry."

"Don't be."

"You're angry with me?"

"No."

"Disappointed?"

"No."

"Why did you walk away?"

John sighed, gazing at Sherlock for long moments. "Yesterday was really nice, you know? Maybe I'm being selfish, but I want all our days here to be like that. I don't want to argue or shout. I just want to be together."

"Oh."

"I teased you yesterday, and you were fine with it, but today, when someone else was witness to it, you didn't like it. I'm sorry, Sherlock, I know you don't always get things and I should be more sensitive to that. I was wrong to tease you."

Sherlock rested his forehead against John's temple. "No, John, I was wrong to react that way. I can ignore or dismiss others when they tease or laugh at me, but...when...you...I know you would never hurt me intentionally, and I understand it's my insecurity when it comes to you-"

"Sherlock, stop. Let's not do this. Let's just forget it and go back to how we were yesterday and this morning. Can we do that? Please?"

"Yes. That would be good."

"Give us a kiss?"

"Of course."

Sherlock kissed John until neither could breathe properly.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"You shouldn't read a book upside down. It's not good for your eyesight and your retention will be poor."

John grinned. "You great git. I love you."

Sherlock curled his hand around John's. "As I love you."

"Sherlock, would you do something for me? Later, after dinner?"

"Anything for you, John."

"Would you play your new composition for me?"

"Yes, it would be my pleasure."

"I'm looking forward to it very much."

* * *

Later in the early evening, after they had finished dinner, the washing up, and shuttered all the windows, John eased himself onto the sitting room sofa to listen and watch while Sherlock tuned his prized violin. It kindled memories of the discordant notes played in times of emotional distress, and the cacophony when Sherlock was angry with his brother.

The delay between his first request and this one had only enhanced John's eagerness to hear the composition, but he waited patiently for the perfectionist to find the precise tones.

"Does it have a title yet?"

"No, not yet. Soon."

"What piqued your musician's ear to write this?"

"It just came to me one night, weeks ago now, and it was a long time before I could make sense of it. I've struggled with it, perfecting, rewriting portions. It's now complete, I just need to title it."

"I'm sure it's beautiful. After you play it for me, maybe I could help you name it. If that's all right with you."

"I would like that, John."

John smiled at him, leaning his head back against the cushion for the time he knew it would take for Sherlock to properly rosin the bow.

When Sherlock drew the bow across the strings for the first time, John lifted his head. It was time. The wait was over.

It wasn't a long composition, perhaps four or five minutes by John's estimation, but when it was finished, and the last note faded, John stared at the violin still held beneath Sherlock's chin. When he finally lifted his gaze, the much loved face of the violinist wore a sad frown.

"You don't like it."

"I do, very much. I don't know a lot about music, but I know what I like. I can't explain it any more than I can explain how a painting makes me feel. I just know that I like it, no, I love it." John swiped at the wayward tears that brimmed and overflowed, sniffing as he did so. "God, Sherlock, that was really beautiful."

"Thank you, John," he whispered, his voice breaking.

"It reminded me of how lost I was without you. How my heart ached for you then, and still does even now when I remember. I don't think I'm worthy enough to name something so beautiful."

Sherlock's shy smile was the one that failed to hide his emotional depth; the one he gifted to only John.

"I am the one not worthy."

"Sherlock."

Sherlock laid his violin aside and moved to sit beside John. He twined their fingers together, and with his free hand, drew John against his chest.

"Thank you, John Hamish Watson, for everything you give to me. I don't know what I would do without you."

Tipping his head back to gaze up into eyes that were now the extraordinary pale blue that always took his breath away, John pulled Sherlock into a tender kiss. As a welcome silence settled around them, John felt good about tomorrow.

* * *

Two more days passed in relative quiet. Mid-day meals were eaten on the outdoor patio where the direct sun kept them warm despite the chilly temperatures. Tea in the kitchen, sometimes with toast and jam, other times with snuggling and kissing. Dinner was simple, but satisfying, and Sherlock ate every morsel on his plate.

John took the last bite of his dinner, glancing across the table as he chewed. Sherlock stared back at him, a frown shadowing his handsome face. The room began to spin, but rather than spoil the moment, John smiled and reached for Sherlock's hand to anchor himself.

"John?"

Sherlock crouched by his side without John having seen him move.

"John, what is it?"

Nothing could spoil this time together. He wouldn't allow it.

"Nothing, Sherlock, it's all fine," he whispered as he forced himself to conceal the sudden sense of...what? He couldn't put a name to it, but the flashes of distorted images frightened him.

"John?"

Sherlock's strong fingers wrapped around his wrist. He recognised the touch. So, checking his pulse.

"John, can you hear me?"

Finally, as the image of Sherlock's distorted face dissolved, and returned to the beautiful features he knew so well, John touched their foreheads together.

"I'm okay, Sherlock. Just one of those moments when you think you left something unplugged at home? I thought I left the kettle on, but then I remembered you had checked it."

Sherlock's expression was one of doubt, enough to know he hadn't been convincing enough, but he let it go.

"Come with me," Sherlock demanded, taking his hand and pulling him to his feet.

Thankfully, the vertigo episode didn't reappear with his sudden upright position. He followed the detective down the hall toward the bedroom, where Sherlock lifted him off his feet and lay him on the bed.

"Sherlock, I'm fine, really."

"I'll be the judge of that."

John smiled up at him.

 _I love you so much. I can't lose you._

The thought, unbidden, and more than terrifying, raced through his mind. Because Sherlock had his back to John as he searched the wardrobe for...the medical kit, he guessed, he was able to banish it.

"Sherlock?"

"Shut up, John."

Sherlock approached the bed, his features pinched and determined, with a bit of fear clouding his eyes.

Scarcely able to hide his smile as he observed Sherlock's gentle handling of the few precious medical instruments, John waited in silence.

Rubbing his thumbs over the ear tips of the stethoscope as he had no doubt seen John do, and probably not realising it was just a doctor's personal preference, Sherlock withdrew the instrument from the kit. Placing the headset around his neck to free his hands, Sherlock reached for the front of John's shirt, unfastening several buttons. After adjusting the ear tips, he warmed the bell on his palm and pressed the chestpiece to each of the five areas as John had taught him.

The detective huffed out a breath that had all the signs of frustration, with a slice of panic. He looked at John with sadness evidenced by the blush rising on his pale skin.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to hear, John."

John drew him forward with a hand at his nape to tenderly touch their lips together. "It's okay, Sherlock. You aren't supposed to. It's what I do."

"Can you do it for yourself?"

"If it will chase your fear away, yes."

Sherlock placed the stethoscope into John's hands. Settling the instrument properly, John pressed the bell to his chest while Sherlock watched him with deep concern narrowing his eyes.

"Everything's just fine, Sherlock. You can stop worrying now. Was my pulse okay?"

Sherlock's head moved in several short, rapid nods.

"Come here, my beautiful genius."

Sherlock climbed over him to lie on his better side, curly head resting on the doctor's shoulder. As John gathered him close, he wondered how much longer he'd be able to keep his secret. Even as the thoughts marched through his mind, the knowledge that he'd promised not to hide any symptoms from Sherlock prickled up his spine.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

 **John Gives Up and Gives In**

* * *

Sherlock lay quietly, his hand flat against John's sternum, measuring the steady beat of his generous heart. Though his doctor's eyes were closed, he wasn't asleep.

He hadn't believed John's explanation about the kettle at Baker Street. John was obsessive about the kettle's use and never failed to unplug it. The kettle was new, chosen specifically for its safety features because of John's concerns. He'd watched John unplug it and store it in the cupboard before they'd departed.

Tipping his head back just enough to see John without drawing his attention, Sherlock allowed himself the luxury of observing without gathering data.

For Sherlock, John was an easy study. He didn't lie very well, and seldom tried, and he never pretended to be someone he wasn't, but not because he was such a bad actor. He was simply a good man and annoyingly genuine. And being a good man had caused John too much heartache and grief during their two years apart.

John avoided sharing his vulnerable inner self with anyone but him, and Sherlock was certain that there was still more that might never be known. His doctor was affable, yet reserved with others, adopting his rigid, no nonsense soldier persona when needed. Captain John had saved their lives countless times.

John Watson was many things to Sherlock Holmes. Doctor, soldier, colleague, his best and only friend, partner, and now the love of his life, but there still existed a lonely little boy who needed love and attention as much as Sherlock. They were a complementary pair who rubbed along pretty well.

John was his personal diamond: multi-faceted, and exquisitely precious.

Drawn from his musings by John's sturdy fingers squeezing his, he focused on John's smile.

"Hello. Feeling better?"

"Yes."

"Physical or emotional?"

John bumped his forehead against his, kissing his nose. "The latter, I think. The pain is pretty much gone, just some minor twinges now and then. You needn't worry, I'm a doctor, you know, I can handle a lot of things, being a former trauma surgeon and all."

"Is it the 'what if' thoughts?"

"You know about that, do you?"

"With you by my side, John, I have learned much that I can't delete."

"Should I be honored?"

"If you wish."

"So, that would be a no?"

"John?"

"Sherlock, don't worry. It's nothing serious. Sometimes it just scares me how close I came-"

"Don't, John. Let me take care of that for you. I'm good at ruminating."

"You are? How so?"

"I worry about you...constantly."

"No, please, Sherlock, leave your brother on the outside."

"I know you're trying to keep things from me, but, John, what I don't know can hurt you, can hurt us. I need to be able to protect you. If your are having a PTSD relapse-"

John held his hand tighter. "I don't think it's that. Look, Sherlock, I promised not to keep secrets and I broke that promise. I'm sorry. I didn't want to worry you. So if I promise now to tell you as soon as I feel something coming on, would you stay near until it passes and then we can talk about it?"

"Of course, as long as you understand that if it gets worse, you will consider going back to London where you can speak to your therapist?"

"Yes, I promise, but I don't think it will come to that."

"Just as a precaution, John."

"Okay, just as a precaution."

"Snuggle time, John."

"Oh, brilliant," John chortled, obviously pleased to have Sherlock change the subject.

* * *

As John settled amongst the pillows and pulled the duvet over his head, he lay motionless, his hand to his belly, just breathing. There was no pain, but over the past days he'd discovered that the breathing still had a therapeutic side effect of relaxation. At the moment, while listening to Sherlock shuttering the windows and other security protocols they'd adopted, it served a welcomed purpose.

Sensing Sherlock's approach, John awaited the inevitable dip of the mattress. Instead, Sherlock lifted the duvet just enough for their eyes to connect.

"I thought I saw a John-shaped lump under the duvet, and here you are." Sherlock's grin and deep voice warmed him as always.

"May I join you?"

"Please."

"May I sleep on this side tonight?" he asked, gently resting his hand over the stitches.

"I think that would be perfect."

Sherlock slipped under the duvet, wriggling close, one bent leg in his favorite position over John's thighs. "Mmm. Nice. Soft. Warm," he whispered, rubbing his palm over John's belly.

For the first time in how long he couldn't remember, John attempted a turn onto his injured side. The stitches pulled, but it was minor compared to what had been in the early days.

"Okay?"

"Yes."

"John, your response sounded a bit strained. I can move to your other side."

"Maybe it will be okay tomorrow?"

"Every day you've been a bit better, you haven't regressed physically, so there is every reason to believe that tomorrow will bring more comfort. You've improved remarkably in just ten days."

"Okay."

"May I lower the duvet so I can see your face? It's been at least two minutes since I last saw you. I miss you terribly."

John giggled, folding back the top edge of the duvet.

"Ah, there you are. The love of my life."

John gazed at his consulting detective so long that Sherlock feathered his fingers along his cheek. "Why are you observing so intensely?"

John drew in a deep breath, missing Sherlock's touch to his belly. "I...who would have guessed that the world's only consulting detective and self-proclaimed, high-functioning sociopath would evolve into a...loving, romantic fool who loved a broken doctor-soldier."

Sherlock smiled down at him. "And who but you would have the patience and fortitude to love that...blah...blah...sociopath.

Just call me a fool for you, John, for the rest of our lives."

"I can do that."

"Good."

"Now put your hand back on my belly."

"Sexy tosser."

"Daft bugger."

"Only for you."

John laughed again, pulling Sherlock against his chest and the duvet over their heads. "Love me, you ridiculous man."

"I do...and I will," Sherlock growled, nuzzling into John's neck.

* * *

Barely awake, John reached out to an empty space where there should have been a warm body.

"Sherlock?"

He bolted from the bed, for a moment not sure of where he was.

"Sherlock!" he called out, aware of the panic in his own voice.

A figure silhouetted in the soft light drew his attention.

"Right here, John. I'm right here."

John rushed toward Sherlock, colliding painfully with the detective's solid body. Strong arms came around him, holding him steady.

"Where were you?" John asked into the hollow of Sherlock's throat.

Sherlock rubbed his hands in circles up and down John's back, and tucked him under his chin.

"I was in the loo, John."

"Oh," John whispered.

"Come on, back to bed."

John crawled up the length of the bed. More than anything he wanted to fall face down into the pillows, but the fear of tearing his stitches, even though he knew they were nearly ready to be removed, held him back. Instead, he lay on his right side, letting Sherlock gather him in against his body. Curling into him, John pressed his cheek to the detective's chest. The steady echo of his heartbeat calmed him, and soon, he slept.

Drifting just below the surface of sleep, distorted images attacked him, jolting him awake. Sherlock tightened his hold, whispered reassurances against his ear. For the rest of the night his sleep was fitful.

* * *

By morning, when John came fully awake, or as awake as possible after a nearly sleepless night, he was exhausted. When he tried to move, Sherlock held him tighter.

"We're having a lie-in this morning. Neither of us got much sleep last night, and right now, you need it more than most. So, I'm going to hum to you while you relax. If that doesn't work, I have a dozen alternatives."

"Sherlock," John replied around a yawn.

"You will do this or so help me whatever-deity-might-be- listening-and-care-to-intervene, I will snog you into unconsciousness, wrap you in this duvet and haul you back to Baker Street. Ignore my threats at your own peril. Make your choice, John."

John heard no anger in the detective's threat, only care and concern with humor to soften his words. He considered his options for several long moments as the the ever impatient consulting detective pretended to patiently wait for his decision.

Finally, John smiled into Sherlock's sternum, dropping a tiny kiss there, and adjusting his head to rest an ear over his heart. The steady, rhythmic beat was a balm to his battered psyche.

Sherlock circled an arm around his head, holding him firmly in his embrace and kissed the top of his head.

"Sherlock?"

"Have you made your decision?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"Hum away."

"Very well. And John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Good decision."

"Thank you."

"But you're still an idiot."

"Yeah, but I'm your idiot."

"Indeed. Humming to commence in three, two, one-"

* * *

John's episodes, as Sherlock came to refer to them, continued, concerning the detective to the point of contacting the doctor at the local clinic. Dr. Sloane, the younger, could fit them in at eleven, three hours hence, and yes, Dr. Sloane, the elder, had contacted him.

That was the first hurdle, easy peasy. The second hurdle, more of an formidable obstacle, considering it was Watson related, was getting John to agree. There was no doubt in his mind that John would be angry.

And so he was. Furious and stretched to his full military height.

"No, Sherlock, I don't need to see another doctor. Why did you do that without my consent?"

"John."

John bristled at Sherlock's most calm and seductive voice. "No, Sherlock. Just, no."

"John?"

"No."

"John, please. I'm worried about you."

"And I'm not looking at you because if I do, I'll see that pouty mouth and those beautiful, pleading eyes, and I'll give in. Again."

"John?"

John shook his head slowly, still refusing to look up from a point on the floor. He stood, shoulders rigid, hands fisted by his side, so clearly struggling with his outrage.

"No, Sherlock."

"John."

"Fuck you."

"Not today, but thank you for the offer."

Observing a quirk to John's lips, Sherlock smiled at the tiny crack in the Watson resolve. Perhaps John had suddenly remembered his own words to avoid upset and argument, but that didn't preclude wearing his indignation like a suit of armour.

Pulling his gaze from the floor to settle on Sherlock's face, John huffed in obvious resignation and walked into the detective's outstretched arms.

"Always your way."

Sherlock groaned as he held him, more than a little pleased, and a bit guilty for his successful manipulation. Nuzzling against John's cheek, urging his head upward until their lips aligned, he nipped at the doctor's mouth until John's smaller, sturdy body leaned heavily against him.

"If you go quietly and without a fuss, I'll take you to lunch and buy you ice cream, any sort, any flavor."

John dropped his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder. "I'll go.

No fuss, no bother."

"Thank you."

"But I don't have to like it."

"Fair enough."

"Git."

"I've been called worse."

John just stared at him. "What time do we have to be there?"

"Eleven."

"I have to shower and eat something."

"You do that and I'll call down to the gate to let...I've deleted his name.."

"Daniel."

"Good, you remembered. I was going to address him as James, James Bond." He grinned stupidly, happily enjoying John's burst of laughter, albeit somewhat held in reserve. Obviously still annoyed as evidenced by the shake of his head when he turned on his military heel and marched to the bath, Sherlock grinned at the sight of his rumpled doctor in low-slung pyjamas looking more like a huggable teddy bear than a soldier.

"Love you," he whispered, so softly he was sure John couldn't hear.

At the entrance to the bath, John paused, looked back at him and smiled. "Love you, too."

* * *

"Ten minutes from here to the clinic, John, so we don't have to rush."

Sherlock watched John bite off a piece of toast after finishing his last spoonful of porridge. Not accustomed to worry, Sherlock nonetheless did worry about John. Constantly, as his brother so often reminded them of his own worry about the two of them.

Finished with his own tea, the detective waited for John to drain his mug, then gathered the dishes and set them aside.

Turning toward his doctor, Sherlock stared blankly in John's direction. He attempted speech, with no audible result. John, who was so good at capturing his thought process and finishing his sentences, supplied the missing word.

"Daniel. You deleted it again, didn't you?"

"Yes, thank you. Daniel will escort us, per Mycroft's instructions, in their supposedly inconspicuous sedan."

"You insisted on driving the Land Rover, didn't you?"

Sherlock frowned, dramatically waving his hands in the air. "I indicated that I was perfectly capable of finding the clinic in the centre of Shaftesbury."

John raised his eyebrows, no doubt waiting for him to admit that his manipulation failed. Sherlock rolled his eyes, sighing to underscore his irritation.

"Daniel...insisted that it was his assignment from Mycroft to be our driver on any deviation from protocol."

"Oh."

"Yes. Hateful man."

"I guess we can't argue with Daniel _and_ Mycroft."

"John."

"I consider us even now, Sherlock."

"What?"

"I couldn't convince you that I don't need to see the nephew Dr. Sloane and you couldn't convince Daniel that you didn't need an escort."

Sherlock had no rebuttal to John's reasoning. It was a disagreement best left alone.

"Just as well," Sherlock conceded.

"How so?"

"He has the keys that I left over the visor."

John grinned. "Oh."

"And the extra set I gave to you that you left hanging in the door lock. He's keeping them until we depart at the end of our holiday. Mycroft's tedious instructions."

"Bollocks."

* * *

Sherlock sat in the back seat with John, holding his hand with both of his, avoiding the rear view mirror and the smirking face reflected there. Tattling to Mycroft about the bullying tactics of the men under his command was immature and silly, but exactly what he intended to do at the first opportunity.

The driver pulled to the kerb precisely ten minutes from the time they'd departed the cottage. Sherlock was mildly impressed at the man's ability to judge time and distance, but kept it to himself.

The detective unfolded himself from the rear seat, holding the door open for John to struggle his way out. He seemed somewhat stiff this morning, Sherlock thought, making a mental note to mention it to Dr. Sloane, then, remembering their lovemaking, deleted the note. There was no sense in unnecessarily ruffling John's feathers. One look at the man's rigid bearing was enough to know he was still irritated over being herded to the clinic for what he obviously felt was worry over nothing.

The clinic was small, nothing like the elder Dr. Sloane's in London, but tastefully kept and non-antiseptic in odor, which suited his olfactory sensitivities.

Sherlock accompanied John to the sign-in desk, standing just behind his shoulder. If John noticed his close proximity, he made no comment, but his continuing angry posture blatant and impossible to ignore.

"May I help you?"

"Yes, John Watson to see Dr. Sloane?"

"Oh, so pleased to meet you. I enjoy reading your blog. It's fascinating, so much more exciting than my job."

John's smile was strained, but indulgent. "Thank you," he said in his softest voice while signing his name.

"Dr. Sloane is just finishing up with a patient. He should be with you shortly."

"Thank you," John repeated with a smile that dissolved the moment he turned away.

"John, are you all right?"

"Fine. I just want to go back to the cottage."

Sherlock fell silent, not knowing what to say in response.

The waiting room was empty but for one other person huddled in the far corner. Sherlock found the man suspicious, so he kept a weather eye on him, reaching protectively for John's hand.

The wait seemed interminable to Sherlock as he checked the clock on the wall at least a dozen times while he observed the man in the corner. In reality, it was just five minutes past ten when a annoyingly cheerful nurse with a cheeky grin stepped through the far door.

"Good morning, Jeremy. You're really early today. Dr. Sloane has one patient ahead of you, so it will be a bit more of a wait."

"Not a problem. Free day today."

In order to release the man from his observation, Sherlock decided he resembled Bill Wiggins, therefore, was no longer a threat. That accomplished, Sherlock turned to John to find him frowning back at him. Offering him a contrite smile did little to erase the frown.

The nurse approached them, still cheerful, more annoying.

"John?"

"Yes, John Watson."

"Come with me," she said to John, but stared at Sherlock.

"You can wait for him here."

In a moment reminiscent of the other Dr. Sloane's nurse, this time Sherlock glared at this nurse, took John's hand and stood his ground.

"He's with me," John said, releasing his hand and walking away.

In the examination room, prepared for another interminable wait, and to keep himself occupied, Sherlock observed John's demeanor. On the surface he seemed perfectly calm, but the repetitive clench and release of his left hand belied his placid exterior. Perhaps in hindsight, forcing John to see a second doctor was a mistake, but if it proved him wrong, he was prepared to apologize and make amends with lunch and ice cream as he had promised.

The doctor was young, very young, younger than Sherlock. The detective was immediately alert to any missed cues that would put John in danger.

"Well, now. I spoke with my uncle in advance of your visit and he-"

"And he warned you that if you missed anything, you would have to answer to this one right here." John tilted his head in Sherlock's direction.

The doctor smiled. "Yes, yes, he did, but since I have all the particulars, I shouldn't miss anything. Mr. Holmes, kindly keep a keen eye and inform me should I err. Be assured that despite my youthful appearance, as has been mentioned thousands of times, I have been a physician nearly twenty years."

Sherlock regarded the doctor as John eased himself onto the examination couch. Moving to John's side and resting his hand on the doctor's shoulder bothered this Dr. Sloane not in the least.

Highly educated, Sherlock decided, not afraid to confer with John's primary doctor. Years of experience with the added benefit of having been vetted by Mycroft. Perhaps his initial impression had been skewed by his concern for John's health.

"Let's have a look at your stitches," Doctor Sloane, the younger, said, fingering the line of sutures. "Oh, these look very good. I would say another week to ten days and they'll be ready to come out. There is no sign of infection. You've been taking very good care of yourself. It must have been horrifically painful for you."

"Yes. The opiates were problematic as well."

"Are you taking them still?"

"Only if needed. My partner has been keeping track of them for me and slowly weaning me off."

"Good," he said, closing John's shirt and pulling away when Sherlock reached forward to fasten the buttons. On his periphery, Sherlock observed a brief exchange between the two men. He glared at Dr. Sloane, saving a tiny smile for John.

"So, you've had a few episodes of vertigo?"

"Yes, very mild. Of the kind experienced when rising too quickly after having been lying down."

"No heart arrhythmia?"

"No."

"Rapid pulse?"

"No."

"My uncle informed me you were diagnosed with PTSD upon your discharge from the army, and that you have seen a therapist?"

"Yes."

"Are you seeing that therapist regularly?" Dr. Sloane asked as he listened to John's heart.

"No, not any longer."

"Why is that?"

"Sherlock is a good listener," John said, clearing his throat of the emotion that made Sherlock's heart flip in his chest.

Draping the stethoscope around his neck, the doctor pressed his fingers to John's pulse at the wrist and carotid artery.

"Are you able to describe how you feel during these episodes? Do you feel ill when you experience them?"

"I don't feel unwell. It's very much like the dreams when there is a high fever. Do you know what I mean? The images are distorted, thoughts are disjointed, lasting only a few minutes or less. Now that I'm nearly free of the pills, there are disturbing dreams at night, but not about the war, and just a few wake me up. Most of them quickly disappear once it's clear they are just dreams, but the associated fear often lingers."

As John spoke, Sherlock noticed that he disconnected himself from his explanation, and his voice settled into a low monotone. He carefully catalogued every word and tone, the lack of expression on John's face and in his eyes as he said them.

When the young doctor rested his hand on John's shoulder Sherlock bristled. _Mine._

"From what my uncle has told me about your history, both before and after meeting your partner, we agree that you experience flare-ups of PTSD, indicating it's not fully under control, but that you are doing a very good job keeping it at bay most of the time so that it doesn't escalate into something dangerous for you or your partner."

John nodded, his left hand clenching and unclenching again. For the detective, it was a clear sign that he was ready to bolt.

"You aren't using anti-depressants, but if this is something you'd like to explore, I can help you, or you can discuss it further with my uncle when you return to London."

John sat up with Sherlock's arm behind his shoulders. The detective observed him bite his lip at his obvious discomfort, but said nothing, preferring instead to intertwine their fingers.

"Sherlock is the only anti-depressant I need, Dr. Sloane. And he's the only addiction I have that I never want to quit."

That said, John slipped off the examination couch, pulled on his coat and strode to the door, leaving it open as he disappeared from sight.

"Something I said?"

"No," Sherlock smiled at the empty space where John had just stood. "He's just had enough. I forced him to come here, an action I regret, but he'll forgive me my concern, I'm sure of it. In time, and after some much needed cursing."

"Well," Dr. Sloane said, offering his hand. "I'm sure he's safe with you. It was good to meet you both. Call on me anytime should you need further care. Enjoy the remainder of your holiday."

"You'll inform your uncle of the results of our visit?"

"Of course."

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock grinned at the doctor before he turned to go. "Yes, John, coming John."

* * *

Sherlock strode from the examination room to find John standing almost military straight and motionless in the middle of the waiting room. Taking John's hand, the detective pulled him into the gents at the far end of the room. Once inside, with the door locked, Sherlock pushed John against the wall, pinning him with the weight of his body.

Sherlock captured his mouth, urgently kissing, gently drawing him in.

"Those things you said in there. That was really good. Thank you," he said against John's unresponsive mouth. He feared John was still angry. In his mind he debated with himself, unable to decide if they should return to the cottage or go ahead with his promised lunch plan and the ice cream after that.

Just when he thought John would not respond, he sighed, leaning heavily into him, repeatedly returning his kisses as though he was discovering him for the first time, and liked what he'd found.

A long few minutes later, hand in hand, they departed without a backward glance, slipping unnoticed into the rear seat of the unoccupied sedan. Five minutes later, when their body guards had not returned to the car, they stepped out, asked directions at the flower shop next to the clinic and walked to the small restaurant just around the corner.

Without obvious thought, Sherlock chose a table away from the window, but with a view of the street. John followed silently, slipping into the chair to Sherlock's right. Old habits, the detective mused. It was soldier John's protective position.

Perusing the sparse menu, Sherlock was interrupted by John's hand on his arm.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"Directly across the street and to the right of the window.

"Yes, I am aware."

"Do you suppose they were following us as we walked here or we gave them the slip and they only just found us?"

Sherlock returned John's smile with a quirk of his brow and an under the table knee to knee bump just when the waiter stopped at their table to take their order.

John seemed to have gotten over his dismay at being manipulated into a visit to the clinic. Sherlock liked to think the diversion in the gents was what turned the tide. If retribution was planned, Sherlock was certain it would be swift, without warning, accompanied by indiscriminate swearing. The thought of it made him grin madly behind the menu.

"You are not fully absolved, Sherlock."

Sherlock threw a sad gaze John's way. "I thought not," he lied, knowing full well that John lied, too, although much less convincingly.

"Pity. I had such plans for this evening."

John levelled a serious eye on him. Sherlock just laughed. John did not. "Here comes our lunch. Eat so we can have that ice cream you promised."

In the end, they chose ice cream from the menu rather than seeking out a specialty shop. While slowly savoring the multi-flavored offerings smothered in chocolate sauce, Sherlock kept a close eye on their security detail.

"Daniel has been pacing back and forth almost since we got here. Do you think he's raised the suspicion of the local police?"

No sooner had the words passed John's lips, than a policeman strolled up to stand next to Daniel. Sherlock watched with interest as they conversed amicably after Daniel had shown his credentials, on several occasions each inclined one head or the other toward the restaurant.

"No problem, then," John commented when the two men shook hands and the policeman walked away.

"Yes, my sentiment exactly, John," Sherlock replied in a perfect imitation of Professor Severus Snape that had John looking back at him, mouth agape with surprise.

Sherlock paid with his card, another obvious shock to John, who looked at him with raised eyebrows.

"What? Did I not promise you lunch with ice cream? I believe I distinctly stated that it was treat in exchange-" Not finishing his sentence suddenly seemed the better thing to do. John's not so innocent smile told him he'd made the correct decision, so he smiled back, patting the doctor's hand.

"Shall we go?"

"Ready when you are," John teased, obviously no longer angry.

Outside on the pavement, Sherlock rested an arm around John's shoulders as they returned to the awaiting sedan, their security detail sauntering behind them as though they had not been outsmarted by the boys of Baker Street.

At the subtle shift in John's bearing, Sherlock was instantly on alert. Keeping his head and critical eye forward, he tipped his head slightly toward John.

"What is it?"

"That's the one from the clinic."

"Yes."

"Something about him-"."

"Just keep walking toward the car."

Sherlock turned toward Daniel as though he were taking in the sights. Daniel, already on alert and closing in on them, nodded once and snapped a finger to his temple to let the detective know he understood.

As John slid into the seat behind the driver and Sherlock settled at his side, the man from the clinic veered off and disappeared into a small market. Daniel joined them in the car, sitting opposite while the remaining two men followed their target.

Sherlock studied the man opposite him for several minutes while they waited, wondering if this Daniel resembled the actor in any way. As he took in the man's nearly black hair and dark eyes, his body long and lean like his own, John elbowed him, holding his phone so only they could see the image of Daniel Craig, the actor. Caught out, and embarrassed, Sherlock frowned, looking away from John and at the people walking past the car.

John dropped his phone into his pocket, leaning toward Sherlock as he did so. "Not to worry, love," he whispered.

Minutes later the two agents returned, entered the car, and the driver pulled away from the kerb. Daniel sent a text, then sat back, obviously awaiting a reply.

At the last turn before approaching the long driveway up to the cottage, Daniel's phone pinged, signalling the answer to the text. Satisfied, he held the screen out so that both John and Sherlock could see it.

Not a threat. No change in status- MH

John nodded, releasing a long sigh, but Sherlock observed the straight line of his mouth and the fisted hands in his lap. Knowing John would not talk about whatever was bothering him while in the company of others, the detective held his silence.

The moment the car came to a stop in the dooryard, John, keys in hand, was the first one out. He disappeared inside, shutting the door behind him with a thud. Sherlock spoke briefly with Daniel, nodded his thanks, then stepped inside, surveying the small foyer for any sign of the doctor. Seeing the bedroom door nearly closed, Sherlock moved toward it, on alert for some sound to identify John's presence.

From the sitting room, John appeared suddenly, slapping his palms against Sherlock's chest. The doctor pushed him backward twice more until he came into contact with the wall.

"Well, hello there, Dr. Watson," Sherlock ground out barely a second before John launched himself into a full scale assault on his waiting mouth.

"Don't you ever-"

"I won't, John," he gnarred, his mind grappling at three possible acts of wrongdoing.

"Never."

"No, never again, John."

As much as John's anger took him by surprise, Sherlock welcomed it, wrapping his arms around the doctor's waist and pulling him as close as possible. When John came back to himself, he dropped his head against Sherlock's shoulder and dragged in air as if he'd never get enough.

"Sorry," John said in a strangled breath.

"No apology necessary."

"But, in the future, do keep me informed when you're going to manipulate me into doing something I don't want to do. You know eventually I will do it anyway, because it's you, and sometimes I can't resist you, and you know that...damn you...and I'm a blathering idiot."

"Does this mean I'm forgiven?" He accepted his fate and deleted his other two scenarios.

John smiled, then snogged him senseless and breathless.

"Always."

For Sherlock, all was well. When they went to bed that night, snuggling close and kissing, there was no reason to believe that anything was amiss.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

 **John, Amongst the** **Missing**

* * *

Sherlock awoke suddenly, bolting upright, his chest heaving. A dream? More like a nightmare. Reaching toward the rumpled duvet...it was not John, but an empty space, cold to the touch.

Quickly pulling on his pyjama bottoms and his dressing gown, he ran, heart in his throat, to the sitting room. Moonlight streamed through the still-uncovered windows-he'd neglected to shutter them-and it was there, through the windows, that he caught movement on the tail of his eye.

Spying John standing just off the patio where they had shared lunch so many times, Sherlock hesitated for just a moment, afraid that if he looked away the doctor might disappear. Racing down the hall to the laundry room, he found the door wide open.

The concrete was cold on his bare feet. Sherlock approached slowly, trying not to startle John, fearing he would either run, or more likely swing at him if the former soldier perceived him as a threat.

Dressed only in pyjama bottoms riding low on his hips, John stood motionless, deceptively calm. In the moonlight his pale skin appeared almost translucent, the new scar like an indelible ink slash along his chest and ribcage. As Sherlock drew closer, he could see that John was far from calm. His entire body trembled as he stared into the distance, at something only he could see.

Finally drawing even with John, Sherlock made his presence known, but didn't speak. After a brief wait, the detective stepped in front of John, circling John's wrists with his fingers. Pressing their foreheads together, he leaned in to kiss John firmly on his mouth.

"It's too cold out here, John, come inside."

John followed without protest. Locking the door behind them, Sherlock hustled John to the bedroom, stripped him naked and tumbled him onto the bed. Dropping his own clothes to the floor, and crawling in beside him, the detective pulled the duvet over them and slotted their bodies together.

John clung to Sherlock's shoulders like a drowning man as his body began to warm again. He rocked against him, a rhythm the detective recognised as a need for emotional comfort rather than sexual release. Sherlock didn't know if he was helping, but he was prepared to give whatever John needed.

If this was a relapse of John's PTSD, his choice was clear: they had to return to the familiarity of Baker Street.

As John's shivering eased and he slumped against him, Sherlock thought he'd fallen asleep.

"Sherlock?"

John's whisper against his shoulder nearly broke his heart. "I'm here, John. Right here."

"I want to stay. Please don't make me go home."

That John knew his thoughts caught him by surprise. Not much in their life together surprised him, but with John Watson it was a everyday occurrence. He couldn't deny John this request.

"All right. We'll stay as long as you need."

"Kay," John whispered.

"I love you, John."

There was no response as John went quiet in his arms, but several minutes later, while Sherlock held onto him so tightly he could feel the line of stitches pressing into his chest,

John began to tremble.

"Love you,"John sobbed into his shoulder.

* * *

Like a thief in the night, it came, shrouding the doctor in its misty cloak, stealing his John-ness, his smile, until there was no light in his beautiful blue eyes.

Sherlock shook off his poetic nonsense and snapped back to attention to observe John absently stirring his porridge. Laying a hand over John's, he stopped the incessant motion.

"John, you need to eat."

John turned at the sound of his voice, staring in his general direction, but made no eye contact. As the seconds passed, John slowly stepped back into himself. Disconnected, John had told him days ago.

Sherlock coaxed and cajoled to prompt him to finish his breakfast, which John neither resisted nor protested. His pleasure in getting John to eat paled in comparison to the frustration he felt at his doctor's sudden withdrawal.

Coercing John to eat lunch was much less time consuming once he offered him cheese on toast with cold milk that had mysteriously appeared in their fridge overnight. Although he loved a good mystery, he had no doubt it was Mycroft via Daniel who was responsible for keeping the fridge stocked. As he watched John devour his lunch and empty his glass without stopping, he was both grateful and annoyed at his brother's big nose, and loathe to admit it.

As the afternoon became early evening, a delivery from a local restaurant featuring Italian cuisine arrived at the door courtesy of Daniel, but it had Mycroft's name all over it. John devoured his portion of vegetable lasagne and had a second serving.

Sherlock dreaded the night. They showered together so the detective could keep an eye on his doctor. John's wandering during the day never included trying to go outside, but Sherlock was dubious that he'd be so lucky in the early hours of the morning.

While he once again shuttered the windows for the night, John followed him, at times appearing reluctant to be left alone as he had at their flat. Considering their recent past, Sherlock understood. He thought again about going home to Baker Street, but the memory of John's tearful plea kept him from reneging on his promise.

When they finally retired for the night, Sherlock drew John into his arms to hug and kiss him, hoping he'd be lucid enough to pay attention.

"John?"

The doctor turned his gaze to Sherlock, his eyes clear for the first time that day.

"There you are. I've missed you today."

John stared at him with a wisp of a smile on his lips.

"I was here all day, Sherlock."

"Yes, your lovely, sexy body was, but your mind was elsewhere. Can you help me understand why you suddenly withdrew from me?"

John was silent for a long while, so long that Sherlock decided that he wouldn't, or couldn't answer. His doctor snuggled in close, laying his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Jeremy."

"The man at the clinic?"

"And outside the Ugly Duckling Cafe."

"What about him?"

"I don't know."

"John?"

"Something...I don't know."

"Do you know him?"

"No...I don't think so. Maybe."

While John lay quietly against him, Sherlock examined the length of his wound by touch. There was the expected difference between the healthy and the damaged, still healing tissue in terms of warmth, but there had been nothing to indicate infection when examined by Dr. Sloane. Setting that aside left him with little data to explain John's unusual behaviour.

"Am I going to survive?"

Sherlock kissed John's nose and then each eye before zeroing on his mouth. "Mm, yes, I conclude that you taste far better than ice cream."

John snorted, patting Sherlock's belly.

Sherlock was a man of science, but in his desperation to help his doctor, he prayed to a deity in whom he didn't believe to deliver John from whatever caused his discomfort, and to give him a good night's rest.

At two, Sherlock, in a befuddled state caused by his own fitful sleep, tried to wake John from the throes of another horrific nightmare. Only his rapid reflexes saved him from the powerful fist that was just a hair's breadth from colliding with his jaw, but found his open hand instead.

Chest heaving, John came awake to realise what he'd nearly caused. Shock, then anger flashed across his face.

"Jesus, Sherlock. You know better than to try to wake me. Oh, God, Sherlock," he said, choking back a sob and throwing his arms around the detective's neck. "I could have really hurt you."

"Doubtful, John," he lied. "I was fully prepared to defend myself."

Even after Sherlock pulled John tight against him, the punch still reverberating along his arm and into his shoulder, he couldn't tell which of them trembled more.

"Do you remember your dream?"

John held on when Sherlock lay back against the mountain of pillows, snuggling in close and nuzzling into his shoulder.

"I don't remember much more than...like pieces of a puzzle that I can't fit together. Nothing made any sense...you were there."

"Can you recall any more of the pieces? Perhaps together we could fit them into some logical sequence?"

"I was running, searching, for something, no, searching for someone. You. You were...missing. I was searching for you, but every time I tried to reach out for you, you disappeared into, you jumped...no, you just disappeared. It was foggy."

"That's good, John. Let me reassure you, I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere. I'll stay with you, and if we become fogbound, I promise not to leave the cottage so you will always know where I am."

John laughed, kissed his almost bruised jaw. "I feel better already."

When Sherlock pulled back to bring John's face into focus in the dim light, his doctor's expression didn't quite match the laugh or the words following. The few seconds of relief he'd experienced dissipated like dew in the morning sunlight.

"Try to get some sleep, John. Tomorrow will be a better day."

John's breathing slowed and deepened as he drifted toward sleep while Sherlock kept watch for any sign of another dream. Nothing unusual happened in the first hour of sleep, but soon after, John whimpered, reaching out his hand to hold onto Sherlock's T-shirt.

"Don't leave. Please stay."

The detective cradled John in his long arms. "I'm here, John. Hush now. Just sleep. Nothing can hurt you while I'm keeping watch."

John moaned in protest, but eventually settled down, only to repeat his calling throughout the hours before dawn. Although accustomed to sleeping sparingly, or not at all for several consecutive days with negligible effects, caring for John exhausted him. Sherlock knew it was the emotional toll on him that drained his energy, but this was John, and he long ago had vowed that everything he did, in the end, was for John.

When dawn finally arrived and the rising sun peeked in around the sides of the drapes, John lay peacefully against Sherlock, his head on the detective's chest. The spot of drool on his T-shirt bothered Sherlock not in the least, rather, it made him smile.

"I love you, John Watson."

"Mmm."

"You're awake?"

"Mmm."

"How are you feeling?"

"Knackered."

"Shall we have another lie in?"

"Kay."

"Come here."

John drew in a deep breath and with help climbed on top of Sherlock, stretching out chest to chest, with his head nestled against the detective's shoulder.

"Do you feel any responsibility for the drool on my shirt?"

"Okay."

"That's not exactly the response I was expecting, but I suppose it will do."

"Shut up, Sherlock." John giggled. "I think I'll put that on a T-shirt."

"You wouldn't dare, John."

"Hey, it's better than 'I still don't understand.'"

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat as the quote from a long ago life rolled off John's tongue, but he ignored its presentation to protect the doctor from any other memories of that dangerous time. "I won't allow it, John."

"Like you could stop me."

"Don't underestimate me, John Watson."

"Shut up, Sherlock," John growled just before locking their lips together.

* * *

The lie in lasted two hours. After a quick joint shower, they shared a quiet breakfast and freshly brewed coffee. John yawned aloud while Sherlock perused the morning papers.

"Aren't you getting bored watching over me?" John asked when Sherlock paused in his reading to look at him.

"Why would I be bored? You continue to be a constant source of wonder for me. A mystery I will never solve, a puzzle I will never complete. You are so perfect for me, I can hardly believe my good fortune."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"You make me sound like a superhero, or something and I'm just ordinary."

"You are my superhero, John. And, as I've stated on more than one occasion, you are far from ordinary."

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"You won't be my hero, because you believe heroes don't exist, but you want me to be your superhero?"

"John?"

"Yes?"

Sherlock held the newspaper in front of his face. "Shut up."

"All right.

* * *

The remainder of the day couldn't have been more normal. Sherlock played his violin, John perused the library on the second floor and neither mentioned the night before. The knowledge of something amiss, however, lurked behind the door of his Mind Palace. John's uneasiness regarding the man at the clinic appeared to be the dark shadow that stalked him in his dreams. That John confused Sherlock's image with the unnamed man was troublesome.

John was a soldier with very good instincts. When those instincts were on alert, Sherlock always listened. John might not always know what the danger was, sometimes discovering it just a bit too late, but he always knew it was there, gaining on them like a darkness rising, determined to bury them in its path.

Sherlock wanted to believe that he could save John from himself, but he was no longer so arrogant that he knew he could. As had been proved by Moriarty, and subsequently Magnussen, every now and then there would be someone who could outwit him, but this time it was his doctor's dreams that were the villains.

John was a target, would always be a target because of the very nature of The Work. John understood that, but that didn't make it any easier for Sherlock.

"Sherlock?"

John's voice came to him from far away, soft with a hint of concern.

"Sherlock?"

"Here, John," Sherlock called from the sofa.

John appeared at the bottom of the stairs. "I've finished browsing the titles in the library," he said, dropping to the adjoining cushion.

Sherlock circled an arm around the smaller man's shoulders and pulled him close. "Anything of interest to either of us?"

"A bit of everything. Very little current. A few mathematics, including your mum's."

"Mummy has a fan?"

"It would appear so."

"Ghastly thought. I tried reading it once, as did my brother. We barely got through the first chapter. I tremble at the memory of it. As she always claims, 'it's rather fatuous now.'"

John laughed, resting his head against Sherlock's shoulder.

"So have you been sitting here thinking all the while I was in the library?"

"No, I spent a small amount of time looking out the window."

"Oh?"

"Yes, there was nothing interesting."

"Nothing at all? No clouds or birds or maybe an insect or two?"

"No, the only thing of interest to me was in the library."

John took his hand in his. "You could have come upstairs. I wasn't reading, just browsing. Nothing important."

Staring at their joined hands, Sherlock rubbed gentle circles over the soft skin beneath his thumb.

"All right?"

Sherlock withdrew from his silence to see John staring at his mouth.

"John?

John smiled. I was just thinking about kissing that mouth of yours. It looked sad, wearing its frown like a heavy burden."

"Not sad, John. Just thinking."

"Fibbing is not your forte, love. Are you worried about me?"

Sherlock hesitated, "No."

"Fibbing again, love?"

Sherlock huffed. "No, John I am not worried about you."

John kissed his mouth tenderly. "I'll give you the benefit of the doubt."

"I'm worried for you, and worry is not something I am accustomed to performing very well."

John stared at him for a long moment. "I don't know how to respond to that other than to tell you not to worry, but knowing you as well as I do, that won't stop you."

"No, it won't. I love you and I will do everything within my power to protect you. I do, however, have an idea."

"You do?"

"Perhaps if I play my violin for you before you go to sleep, you won't dream?"

"It's worth a try. You know I will never say no to an opportunity to listen to you play." John tilted his head to peer at him. "Play seems like such a poor word to describe what you do. I think I'll give it some thought and devise a new word."

Sherlock nipped at John's mouth. "Perhaps you should offer that idea to your subconscious so it has something pleasant to contemplate rather than to dwell on something you fear."

"I will. In the meantime, I need those lips. Give them back."

"Now that your laceration is no longer tender to the touch-"

Sherlock toppled his doctor over onto his back, straddling his hips. "Dessert before dinner, John."

With a devilish gleam in his eye, John grinned up at him. "I think that is a brilliant idea. Amazing, extraordinary idea."

* * *

Tucking John amongst a pile of pillows beneath the duvet to assure comfort and warmth, the detective turned down all the lights and stood beside the bed in his best dressing gown. As promised, Sherlock serenaded John for nearly an hour with soft melodies chosen to soothe him and encourage pleasant dreams. At the conclusion, he played the as yet untitled composition.

Following the music, Sherlock guided John's mind to memories of happy occasions they'd shared _._ In the dim light of the bedroom, John snuggled against him, listening to the detective recount the memories he knew so well. If John's thoughts deviated to the more difficult memories, he showed no sign of it. He listened, rarely interrupting unless Sherlock stretched the truth or needed correcting, which only encouraged more stories.

"...and then one day you told me that you loved me, and because you are an unerring, honest man, I believed you. I confessed that I had loved you since our first meeting, but I didn't know it was love that I felt."

"And we are living mostly happily ever after."

Sherlock tipped his head to rest his cheek against John's crown.

"Indeed, John, mostly?"

"Well, nobody can fake being such an annoying dick all the time."

"John, that makes no sense at all."

"No, but, in hindsight, it was a humorous declaration."

Sherlock hugged the doctor against his chest. "Yes, yes, it was. Now it's a silly non sequitur."

John tucked his left hand beneath Sherlock's opposite shoulder and wriggled in. His nose buried into the detective's neck, he inhaled deeply. "You smell good. New shower gel?"

"Raspberry."

"I like it."

"I like yours as well."

John giggled. "I used plain soap, Sherlock."

"I know," he said, sniffing the air."

"Just soap, Sherlock."

"I believe it's a new product called _Only John._ "

"Git."

"Yours."

"Lips, Sherlock. Right this instant."

"Arrgh!"

"Oh, no, not the plundering pirate!"

With just one strong knee, Sherlock rolled them over, pinning John to the mattress. "Prepare to be boarded, my good man."

John giggled, hugging Sherlock about the head. "Goodness has nothing to do with it."


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

 **How? I Watched You...Die. You're Dead**

* * *

John woke with a cry in his throat to an empty bed. When he tried to remember his dream so he could tell Sherlock, it retreated into the darkest shadows of his mind and refused to obey his command.

Rolling off the bed, John leaned on the mattress to lift himself to his feet in one fluid motion, but rubbing his eyes with his fingertips did little to banish the sleep from his head. Padding along the hallway toward the sitting room and the kitchen beyond, he encountered only emptiness. The longer his search continued, the heavier the panic in his throat.

Where was Sherlock? He wasn't in the loo, he wasn't anywhere.

A thump to the side of the cottage wall startled him, driving all his instincts to high alert, instantly convincing him that Sherlock was outside.

The slap of air that broadsided him when he cautiously opened the door was enough for him to realise he needed protection from the cold. Stepping into his trainers that still sat beside the foyer door, he pulled on the ridiculous jumper Sherlock had worn hours ago just to make him laugh. Smoothing it over his chest, he stepped out onto the small, circular driveway directly in front of the cottage.

No Sherlock.

Glancing to his left, he hesitated a moment before he followed the stone path to the end of the cottage. In the swirling fog, John's eyes caught movement at the stone wall that separated the landscaped yard from the woods beyond. He didn't call out to Sherlock, he simply followed. It was what he did. He always followed Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

When Sherlock returned from the laundry room where he'd gone to speak privately with his brother, John was not in the bed, nor in the loo. Hoping he'd gone for something to drink, as he sometimes did, he suddenly was aware of cold air, as though a window were open.

Following the air current, he discovered the front door wide open. Stepping into his shoes, he noticed John's trainers were not where they had been the earlier that night. The hideous jumper he had worn while they ate lunch, which sent John into peals of laughter, was also gone.

Once he stepped through the door, he was startled by Daniel's sudden appearance at his side. "Shite," he said, wanting to use a much stronger epithet, but that was John's area. "John's not in the house."

"I know. He followed someone into the woods."

"I need to go after him," Sherlock nearly shouted.

Daniel gripped his shoulder. "You need to be here if he turns back. He'll need you to be where he expects you to be. Did you receive a call from Mr. Holmes?"

"John slipped out while I was speaking with him. Idiot. I should have stayed with John so he wouldn't-"

"So you know what's going on?"

Absently nodding, Sherlock's only concern was John. "He's out there alone, he's not dressed properly and not yet strong enough to defend himself."

Daniel still held onto his arm. "John's not alone, Sherlock. One of our men is following him and the one John is tracking."

"My brother said that we've been found. With all the precautions taken, whoever is out there found us. I don't even know why they are after us."

"I'm sure your brother will explain everything to you. Right now we have to keep John safe."

"John is...he's not...he's been having nightmares that I haven't been able to work out yet. When he woke up and I wasn't there, he must have gone looking for me. He's been afraid that I'll leave him alone."

"PTSD?"

"He was diagnosed when he returned from Afghanistan. It has been under control for several years, but after a recent altercation in which John was severely injured, he's had odd dreams. After his visit to the doctor, John observed a man he thought he knew, but couldn't identify. The dreams intensified to the point that I believe he might be on the verge of a relapse."

"I understand. Mr. Holmes gave us instructions, but didn't go into detail. A need to know situation that was personal and he wasn't at liberty to discuss, is what we were told. Your explanation makes it all very clear now."

Sherlock nodded, swallowing hard against the clot in his throat.

"I need you to go back inside, lock the doors and stay away from the windows until I return. I have keys."

Daniel's blue-eyed stare was more fierce than any John had ever trained on him. Sherlock nodded, numb with fear. Terrified unlike any other time since first knowing John, he obeyed with a single nod.

The moment he stepped inside and locked the door, Sherlock strode to the bedroom, to the wardrobe where John's personal effects were neatly stored. In the drawer, pushed all the way to the back, he found the box that held John's Sig under lock and key, but it was unlocked. When he lifted the lid, it was empty.

Then he remembered.

Striding to the bed, the detective reached beneath the pillow that still held the impression of John's fair head. The Sig was not there. Turning round in a circle to observe the room, there was no logical place John would have hidden it. The underside of the bed was also empty.

Had he taken it with him? Why would he do that? It was illogical. At the time, John would have had no reason to believe that he was outside. In the loo, perhaps, but John wouldn't take his weapon there. Would he? Perhaps John was more effected by the suspected return of his PTSD than he realised.

Sherlock paced. Never had he felt so helpless.

He counted the number of laps from one end of the cottage to the other-and why was it considered a cottage when it was twice the size of Baker Street?-when a call from his brother interrupted his pacing.

"What?" he shouted.

"Sherlock, you must stay focused. This is not the time to lose control."

"Don't tell me to control myself, Mycroft. What good is your security when you can't-"

"Sherlock! Enough!"

Without a conscious thought, Sherlock disconnected the call, turned off the phone and threw it across the room. It bounced off the back of the sofa and fell behind it. Seconds later, John's phone pinged in the distance where it lay on the nightstand. He let it go to voicemail.

* * *

John wandered far away from the cottage into the woods in search of Sherlock. Swallowed by the darkness and eerie fog, he could see only a few feet ahead as he walked.

Listening intently to the sounds around him, he gradually became aware of movement a short distance away. Holding his position, John automatically slipped into his ingrained military mode, moving deliberately, making little sound of his own. He wasn't a good tracker, hadn't had much experience as he'd spent most of his time aiding the wounded, but this wasn't Afghanistan, and Sherlock wasn't a wounded soldier. Determined to find his detective, John continued on.

Minutes later, John realised there was another someone not far behind him. Confused, not certain if Sherlock was ahead or behind, he stopped, stepped behind a tree, and waited.

Startled by a hand clamping across his mouth, John struggled, unable to break free. Pushed against the tree, the odor of sweat and filth assailed his nose.

"Don't try it, Watson. This gun will do more damage than the knife. I don't want to hurt you, unless you give me no other choice. It's not you I'm after, but you'll do until I can get to Holmes. And you're going to take me to him."

John made a second attempt to free himself, but his assailant was stronger, and his struggle only got him pressed face first against the tree.

"I'm going to take my hand away and we're going to have a little chat so I can make myself very clear. If you shout or try to run it will be the last thing you do. Understand?"

John nodded, the struggle over as soon as the image of Sherlock's face upon finding his body surfaced in his mind. He couldn't do that to the man he loved.

"He'll be after you, and he'll find you, he always does. He's too clever to fall for whatever you have planned."

"That's why I came after you. I've been watching the news. Seems you have a weakness. And you're a little bugger. Won't take much to bring you down, there in your jim-jams."

John's captor had not noticed the gun tucked into the waistband at the front of his flannel bottoms. Just as he decided to reach for it, a kick to his abdomen drove him to his knees. He went down hard, hitting his head on the tree before he met the ground.

Feeling a stitch or two let go, John bit down on his lip to keep from crying out. He rolled into a ball, pulling the Sig from his waistband as he did so, and tucking it underneath him. He lay still, hoping to avoid another kick to the kidney that had already begun to throb.

With an estimated five minute respite to gain control of his pain, John felt more able to fight back, but he remained unmoving for several more minutes while the man paced in the darkness, kicking at the ground like a frustrated child.

John ignored the investigative nudge. When he didn't respond, the man nudged him a bit harder with his foot. Still John held back, giving himself as much time as he could. Sooner or later he'd have to defend himself.

The pacing grew more agitated; the great oaf growled his frustration and John knew his time was nearly up. A kick to his lower back forced a groan from his throat. Tosser.

"Finally awake, I see. Get up, we're going to that fancy house so I can look Sherlock Holmes in the eye."

"Why do you want to hurt him?"

"He probably don't remember me, but I remember him. He sent my daddy away. Ain't good for a boy to grow up without his daddy.

Almost had him a bit ago, but you got in the way. My brother cut you pretty good, now he's hidin' out 'til things quiet down. Once I get Sherlock freakin' Holmes out of the way, we'll be goin' somewhere no one will ever find us."

"Sounds like crap telly. Nobody says that in real life."

The man grinned, but remained silent. John stared up at him. "You kill Sherlock Holmes, I promise you that his brother and I and all of Scotland Yard won't rest until we hunt you down."

The man laughed, waving his gun in the air. "Now who sounds like crap telly. Get up."

Pulling himself up on the tree with one arm, John kept his back turned, the gun hidden against his thigh. Hoping to get out of this with no shots fired, he shook his head as if to clear it.

John walked just a few steps, caught his foot on a tree root and hit the ground hard. The sharp, driving pain in his chest forced him to curl in on himself as another stitch gave way. "Shite."

With the slowing of his thought processes came the distorted, disjointed images like flashes behind his eyes; like some sort of torture device he knew first hand because he was always a target now.

'When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefields. You've seen them already, haven't you?'

Those words haunted him the first time he'd heard them from Mycroft, before he knew, when he thought the man was Sherlock's archenemy. Now it was just a thought-amusing in another time, but not this one-to confuse his own mind.

Pushing it aside, John, the doctor, struggled to keep his mind clear. John, the soldier, knew what he was up against, but the body both Johns inhabited was unable to protect himself from the blow to his chest.

"Get up, or I'll put a bullet in your-what?"

Sounds of a struggle reached John's ears as he lay on the ground gasping for breath. Praying that it wasn't Sherlock fighting, but hoping it was, and fighting his rapidly decreasing consciousness, he waited for a gunshot that never came. Rough hands pulled at his jumper

"John. John, can you hear me?"

John rolled onto his back, holding his Sig in both hands. The gun swayed back and forth aiming at both images wavering before his eyes.

"Easy, John, you're okay now. It's over."

When the Sig was gently prised from his hand, John gave in and gave up for the second time in the last days. His mind told him it was all over, all the fight was gone from him, it was time to die. "Sherlock."

Firm hands rested on his shoulders. "John?"

John forced himself to open his eyes. It wasn't Sherlock, but it was a familiar face from the past. Wasn't it? "Jeremy...Myers? How can you...be here? I watched you...die. I couldn't get to you. You were dead."

"No, John. I was pretty bad. You'd just been shot and Bill Murray took you away. You were in shock. It was a long time before I could function again. I lost track of you for a time. Long story, but Mycroft Holmes put me in place to protect you and your partner."

"I went to your funeral. I thought I'd lost you."

"I was recruited for Special Ops, John. You know what that means."

Confusion crowded in on him. "I spoke.."

"I know, I was there."

John started to shake. The familiarity slammed into him like a runaway lorry. Darkness circled round him. Buried in the memories once more, he couldn't keep his thoughts together, or at bay.

"Sorry, Sherlock. I just can't." He let the darkness take him.

When he came to, it was to someone slapping his cheek.

"Come on John, open your eyes. Open your eyes. You're okay. Do you hear me, John?"

John obeyed, focusing immediately. "Jeremy? Oh, god, why are you here? How are you here?"

Jeremy smiled down at him. "I live in the neighborhood and I hold a minor position in the British government. Can't tell you any more than that."

Music. He heard music in the distance. It was...Sherlock's...the new composition.

"He's waiting for you, John. Go to him. He's calling you. Can you hear him?"

"Sherlock?"

"You have to get up now, John."

Strong arms lifted him to his feet, held him in a firm embrace until he was steady enough to stand on his own.

"Do you hear the music. Go to it, follow the music. You just have to get there and he'll take care of you."

"Sherlock?" John's teeth chattered, his body trembling from the chill.

"Yes, he's there. He's waiting for you. Go. Now."

John stared at Jeremy. "Come with?"

"I can't. Not this time, John, but I'll see you again soon. I promise."

John stumbled as he took his first few steps.

Jeremy steadied him again. "Follow the music."

John stopped for a moment, turning back. Of course, there was no one there, only the fog. So, just his imagination.

"Jeremy?"

With his eyes focused ahead, not on his feet or the path in front of him, John fell several times, but forced himself to his feet each time. Sherlock's music curled around his heart, guiding him toward safety. Toward home. Sherlock was home.

When he came upon the stone wall at the edge of the wood, he could barely see the glow that shone from the light beside the front door of the cottage. It was the music that he followed; it wasn't diminished by the thick fog blanketing the remaining distance.

Shaking arms and legs and crumbling stones proved more of an obstacle than John anticipated. He slipped on the dew soaked stones more than once, finally tumbling with a painful thud to the grass on the other side. Rolling to a sitting position, he rested for a moment before attempting to stand.

When he came to the brick-bordered edge of the driveway, he looked up. The music suddenly ceased following a strangled drag of the bow across the strings. A light breeze stirred the fog enough for John to see Sherlock pass his violin and bow to Daniel.

"John?" Sherlock called to him, his voice nearly as discordant as the notes he'd just mangled.

Despite his muddled head, the panic in Sherlock's voice reached out to him, urging him forward.

"I'm here, love," John managed to say as his legs gave out. He didn't protest when Sherlock scooped him up into his arms and carried him into the cottage.

* * *

Knowing Daniel would leave his violin in a safe place and secure the door behind him, Sherlock hurried inside with John in his arms and strode with purpose to the bath. Pausing only long enough to remove his shoes, he walked straight into the shower.

After lowering John to the floor, he removed his shoes and turned on all six shower jets, aiming them directly at his doctor. Stripping him to the skin, Sherlock spread shower gel over him, and rinsed him thoroughly, paying particular attention to washing away the blood streaked along the length of the laceration. As he examined the ripped stitches, John winced and pushed his hands away.

"John, I have to be certain the wound is clean," he said, holding the doctor's hand until he relented.

Once satisfied with the appearance of the wound, Sherlock turned off the water, wrapped John in a bath sheet and guided him from the shower area to the bench just outside the enclosure.

Dropping his own wet clothing inside the shower, Sherlock dried himself quickly and pulled on the dressing gown he'd left hanging behind the door that morning.

Supporting John, Sherlock walked him into the bedroom, quickly towel-dried his hair, and bundled him naked under the duvet.

From the wardrobe, Sherlock unearthed the medical kit.

"Sherlock?"

"I saw some of those paper things that hold skin together. Are they still here?"

"Steri-strips, Sherlock, for holding small wounds together. There should be some in there, the inside pocket, I think."

Sherlock searched again. "Yes, here they are. There is some antibiotic cream, too. Should I use a bit of that?"

"No, Sherlock. The strips are okay, but they won't stick if you use the cream."

"All right," he said, pulling his magnifying glass from the pocket of his dressing gown. Before he could use it to examine the torn stitches more closely, John curled his fingers around it and took it away from him.

"Sherlock, please, just put the strips on."

Chastened, he averted his gaze so John wouldn't see. "Yes, John."

"How many did I tear?"

"Five, I think. When we get home you should check in with Dr. Sloane."

"That won't be necessary. I can take care of it."

"I'll help."

"I know you will, love," John whispered, his eyelids fluttering down.

Sherlock took his hand, kissing his palm. "John, are you all right?"

"Weary, Sherlock, and confused."

"Why did you leave the cottage?"

"I woke up suddenly and you weren't here. I went looking for you. I thought you had gone outside, or somebody had taken you, and I knew I had to find you. That's all I remember. Everything's sort of crazy and foggy in my head."

"I'm sorry. I had a call from Mycroft. I stepped out of the bedroom so I wouldn't wake you."

"Oh."

"So, what happened out there in the woods?"

John closed his eyes and shook his head. "Sherlock, I know you want all the details, but I really don't want to talk about it right now."

"All right."

John frowned, and Sherlock felt guilty for asking. When the doorbell interrupted any further discussion, Sherlock was relieved.

"I'll be right back."

John pushed away the duvet and sat up. "I'm coming with you."

Raising an eyebrow, Sherlock produced his mad grin. "You're naked under there, John."

"Oh. Right."

"It's probably Daniel. I won't be long."

"Okay. I'll wait for you right here."

Sherlock leaned over to press a kiss to John's lips.

"Ah, there's the Watson smile."

Sherlock strode to the door. Once there, he took the extra precaution of looking through the spyhole before opening the door.

"Daniel? Dr. Sloane?"

"Hello, Sherlock," Dr. Sloane greeted him. "I received a call from my uncle, who had received a call from your brother-"

Daniel cleared his throat and seemed uncomfortable. "I reported the situation to Mr. Holmes as I was instructed and I believe he is the one who set things in motion. I'm sorry if I caused any problems."

Sherlock frowned. "No problem at all."

"John is injured?"

"Come in, Dr. Sloane."

"I'll be outside," Daniel said, closing the door behind him.

"Thank you for coming. My apologies for my brother's over- protective manner."

"Don't apologise, Sherlock. I live not far from here, so it's really not a problem."

"I do appreciate that you've come. John is lying down. He's torn several stitches," he explained as he led the way to the bedroom. "I cleaned the area and applied those paper steri-strips per John's instructions, but it would be good of you to have a look. John can be very stubborn and he insists he can take care of it himself."

"I understand. It's difficult for doctors let others care for them. I'm told we make the worst patients."

"Before we see John, you should know that I observed marks on abdomen, and lower back, the kidney area. I suspect he was kicked, but the bruises are not noticeable yet. Although somewhat vacant at first, he was more lucid after I bathed him and got him into bed."

"You observations are quite...amazing. I can see how that would be invaluable in your line of work."

Sherlock smiled, recalling John's warning to be gracious when receiving a compliment. "Thank you, Dr. Sloane."

"Lead the way, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock, please."

Dr. Sloane nodded. "Sherlock."

The detective strode to the bedside, where John lay asleep. He rested his hand atop John's head.

"I'll just have a look at the stitches," the young doctor said, as he folded back the duvet."

"He's naked."

Dr. Sloane smiled without looking up. "Has he anything that I've never encountered on a male human body?"

"No!" Sherlock grimaced. "Oh. No, I suppose not." Then he frowned. How stupid.

"The torn stitches are not a problem, they're acceptable considering they're nearly ready to be removed."

"I'll examine his kidneys now."

Sherlock observed while Dr. Sloane palpated John's kidneys.

"He seems to have no discomfort. Pain would indicate damage to the kidney itself and I find no enlargement. Any nausea or vomiting?"

"Not as yet."

"Watch for blood in the urine, back spasms and bruises, which might be quite spectacular. Nausea or vomiting, as I mentioned. Call me immediately if any of these symptoms present themselves."

"All right."

Dr. Sloane left John sleeping peacefully on his back, drawing the duvet over his shoulder before standing. "Just let him sleep." He withdrew a card, offering it to Sherlock. "All my contact information is on this card. Call or text anytime day or night."

"Thank you. My plan is for John to rest for another day or perhaps two, before trying to convince him to return to London. Our holiday ends at the weekend."

"Rest is a wise approach. As a precaution keep an eye on those stitches for any sign of inflammation. Is he still taking the opiate?"

Sherlock shook his head slowly. "No, not for the last two days."

"If he needs a pain reducer, give him three paracetamol every six hours. If that offers no relief, contact me, or if you are on your drive home, take him to A&E."

"Yes, of course."

"Take care of yourselves. It was a pleasure meeting you. Please tell John that I look forward to reading more adventures from his blog."

"Yes," Sherlock said. John's 'be nice, Sherlock,' echoed in his mind. He sniffed his indignation, but said nothing further.

"Mr. Holmes? Sherlock?"

Sherlock blinked, turning his attention to Dr. Sloane. "Sorry. I...was...lost for a moment."

"I understand. It has been my experience that it is very stressful for the caregiver, too, when a loved one is injured. Even the strongest of hearts ache to see another in pain."

Sherlock had no response for that kindness. He simply nodded.

"Well, I'll be off. Try not to worry, and, again, call on me anytime. Even if you just need someone to reassure you."

"I don't think that will be necessary, Dr. Sloane, but I will keep it in mind."

"Good, well, goodnight."

"I'll see you out."

"No, please, stay with John. I'll let myself out and lock the door behind me."

Sherlock offered a rare handshake. "Thank you again, and goodnight. Have a safe drive home."

"Two miles is all I have, thank you."

When Dr. Sloane was gone, and after the door clicked shut, the snap of the deadlock secured from the outside assured Sherlock that Daniel was nearby.

Sherlock feared leaving John alone for even a moment, but he needed to do something to quiet his own nerves before lying next to his doctor. John would sense his disquiet immediately, even in his sleep, and the detective wanted to avoid disturbing him while he desperately needed rest.

He turned off the lights in the sitting room, noticing for the first time that his violin still sat on the sofa where Daniel had placed it. Sherlock carried the Strad to where its case lay on the table beside John's adopted chair. Flipping open the lid to find John's Sig tucked inside, he swept the room with his keen gaze to locate the clip. In an instant he saw it on the mantel, behind a vase of flowers.

After securing his violin in its case, he carried it, the gun and its clip to the bedroom. Placing John's weapon carefully into its box and locking it, Sherlock pushed the box to the back of the wardrobe, hiding it under one of John's jumpers. Once the violin was safely on the top of the bureau, he approached the bed where John lay buried beneath the duvet.

For a moment, he stood over his doctor, simply watching him sleep. For the first time in several days, John seemed at peace. Slack-jawed, mouth slightly open, the tip of his tongue peeking out, it was a sight that made Sherlock tear up. Despite feeling warm inside, Sherlock shivered when he thought of how many very bad scenarios could have happened tonight.

 _How contrary, sentiment, warmth and chill at once. Now that John is mine and I am his...forever, it is a most wonderful emotion, but love, love for John, and John's love for me is the most wonderful of all._

Until the moment Sherlock slipped out of his dressing gown, he hadn't realised he wore nothing else. He chuckled softly as he slid beneath the duvet. John would glare at him when told, then melt into uncontrolled giggles. Making a mental note to share his mistake with his doctor, he turned on his side to gaze at John's handsome face.

Barely placing a kiss to John's mouth caused the doctor to stir.

"I love you, John Hamish Watson."

One strong, broad hand, knuckles scraped and bruised, reached for him. Sturdy fingers on his lower back urged him forward, slotting them together like a puzzle with all the pieces in their rightful places to present a picture of their life together.

John sighed into his neck, swallowing hard. Sherlock pulled back enough to see him just as a single tear slipped along John's cheek. He kissed it away and hugged him with a protective ferocity he'd only thought about, but never understood until that moment.

"Sherlock?"

"Shh. Just sleep. We can talk in the morning."

"I...need...to tell...you. Now."

"Tell me? Tell me what, John?"

John tangled his fingers into Sherlock's dark curls, pulling his head down so they were nose to nose.

"I...love...you, too," he breathed against Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock kissed him, blinking back his own tears. Brilliant. Amazing. Extraordinary, his John Watson.

'Mine. He's mine. I will love him forever,' he shouted through all the rooms and hallways of his Mind Palace.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

 **Going Home**

* * *

For the following two days John hobbled around the cottage like an old man, grunting and groaning whenever he had to sit down or stand up. The only time he was at all comfortable was when he was lying down. The paracetamol took the edge off his pain as long as he didn't move, but when offered the stronger pills, he refused them, determined to keep his head clear.

Dr. Holmes, as John had nicknamed him, was a blessing and a curse. Gentle and caring, and obnoxiously curious about every scratch and bruise, the detective kept him occupied by reading to him, playing his violin, and best of all, kissing him whenever they sat together on the sofa or any other time Sherlock thought necessary.

Tucked against Sherlock's side, John wrapped his arms round his waist for a quiet moment, resting his head on the detective's chest. "Have you found a name for your composition?"

"I believe so."

"Oh?"

"Yes, it came to me while I was watching you sleep."

"Really? Will you tell me now, or do you need more time to be certain that it's what you want?"

"I believe I've made my decision."

"All right. So you didn't need my help after all."

Sherlock softly smiled. "I'll always need your help."

John kissed the corner of his mouth.

"May I play it for you now?"

"Of course. I would love to hear it every day."

Sherlock laughed. "I shall endeavour to fulfill your request."

"You're being formal again, Sherlock."

"Apologies, John, teasing."

John reluctantly pulled away to allow Sherlock to stand. Following him with his gaze, and savoring the graceful glide of his body as he crossed the room to retrieve his violin, an overwhelming wave of affection washed over him, stealing his breath away and causing his heart to race.

Mesmerized by the slow, subtle movements as Sherlock tuned the violin strings and applied the rosin to the bow, John leaned back against the sofa and sighed. Absent were the usual discordant tones of bow on strings as Sherlock performed a brief warm-up exercise.

It was important to John to remain attentive for this rare piece of music. His normal practice of closing his eyes was forgotten as Sherlock played the first notes.

Sherlock's finesse and the emotion on his beautiful face as gentle notes wafted around and through him were far beyond any words John could express. At the last note, John swiped at the tears on his cheeks.

Sherlock smiled shyly, obliging when John patted the space beside him. Violin set aside, the handwritten composition held in his long, exquisite fingers, Sherlock sat next to him, offering the well-worn music sheet to him.

John gazed at the hand drawn, miniscule notes scattered over the page, amazed how such a thing could be the guide to the music he had just heard. Sherlock's scrawl at the top of the sheet drew his attention, prompting new tears to blur his vision.

 _For John,_ _You Are My Heart_

"Sherlock," John whispered, barely able to get his voice past the lump in his throat.

"You are my heart. You must know that. You have been since the first time I met you. Certainly since that night.."

"When I shot the cabbie?"

"Yes. I had known you for less than a day and you didn't hesitate when I was in danger. You saved my life."

"And you saved me."

"Yes, we saved each other."

John nodded, taking a deep breath. "Sherlock, love?"

"Yes, John?"

"I'd like to go home."

"Yes, John. I had planned to discuss that with you at dinner this evening. I want to be sure that you feel strong enough to endure the Land Rover for the drive."

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked at him with a steady gaze. "Now?"

John nodded. "If we leave within the next hour, we'd be home before nightfall. We don't have a lot to pack and-"

"All right."

"I'd really like to sleep in our bed tonight. Wait, did you say all right?"

"Yes, I did."

"You're okay with that?"

"Yes. The bloom is off the rose, John."

John smiled. "Very poetic."

"No, I think I heard that from Molly and I filed it away for future use."

"It's not an idiom you'd want to use regularly, Sherlock. It's sort of depressing, and I hope you mean that it's our holiday that is not as new, fresh and exciting as it was in the beginning, and not me."

"No! Of course it's not you, I'm not an idiot..I'll shut up now."

"Poetry is not your strong suit, love. Stick to crime, you excel at that."

"Just trying to diversify a bit. I don't want you to become bored with me."

"I don't think that will be possible any time soon, Sherlock, in fact, definitely never."

"But-"

"Sherlock, I love you just the way you are. You're perfect for me."

"No one is perfect, John, except you, for me, I mean."

"I'd rather we be imperfect for each other. It makes life more interesting."

Sherlock set aside his journal and stood.

"Where are you going?"

Sherlock offered his hand. "If we're to be home before nightfall, we need to pack. No time for snogging now."

Eager to be home, John smiled up at him as he stood. Despite the pain his sudden movement caused, John planted his hands on Sherlock's bum and hurried him along the hallway to the bedroom.

"Do you think the owners will mind if we don't wash the towels or the sheets?"

"John, look around you. Do you really think the people who own this cottage will do the washing themselves? They'll have a cleaning staff in here for the next guests within hours of our departure."

"I suppose you're right."

"Yes, I am."

"Berk."

"Shut up and start emptying the bureau drawers. I'll get the luggage.

"That's a good boy, Sherlock."

The detective wrapped his arms around John and kissed him until his knees gave out. "I lied when I said there was no time for kissing."

"I see that and I concur. There is always time for kissing."

By packing their remaining clean clothes together in one bag and the soiled in the second one, they were packed in fifteen minutes.

John searched from room to room for any stray items, hurrying back to Sherlock when one item was missing.

On the verge of panic, John got right up in Sherlock's face. "Sherlock, my gun? I had it in the woods, but I haven't seen it since."

"No worries, John. It's locked in its box and waiting with the luggage."

"Oh. Good. That's good...very good." John rested his head against Sherlock's chest. "How?"

"How was it returned?"

"Yes, yes, how was it returned?"

"Daniel returned it. No questions asked. John?"

John frowned. "What?"

"What's wrong, John?"

"Nothing's wrong."

"Why are you agitated?"

"I'm not agitated, Sherlock."

Folded into Sherlock's arms, John tried to relax, but it was beyond him at that moment.

"If you're worried about someone else knowing about your illegal weapon, don't be. Mycroft has already spoken to Daniel."

"Oh."

Sherlock gently shook him by the shoulders. "Stop worrying. It's all fine."

John leaned into Sherlock, finally letting his breathing slow and his heart rate return to normal.

"What do we do with the food that your brother delivered this morning?" John queried into Sherlock's sternum.

Sherlock tilted John's head up with a finger under his chin.

"Nice segue, John," the detective whispered as he pulled John in for a chaste peck on his upper lip.

"There must be a soup kitchen nearby. I'm sure they would put it to good use. I'll include a monetary donation and ask our friendly security detail to deliver it."

John turned to walk to the kitchen, hiding his grin when Sherlock followed, resting his elegant fingers over his shoulders. "Very nice, Sherlock. That's very generous of you."

"Not of me, John. Of Mycroft and his credit card. I will be sure to tell them who to thank."

"You just want to irritate your brother. You have his credit card? Did you nick it?"

"John, how could you think so little of me?"

"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, snapped it shut, opened it a second time, snapped it shut a second time and looked at him with a quizzical expression.

"That makes absolutely no sense at all," Sherlock huffed, confused. "You've applied my words to...to...it makes no sense at all when applied to my brother."

"I know."

"Then, why?"

"It's sort of a non sequitur, Sherlock, and I just wanted to distract you."

"From what? For what reason?"

"This reason." John turned to Sherlock, crooked a finger to get him to bend down a bit. John went up on his toes, curled one hand around Sherlock's neck to hold him firmly, mouth to mouth.

Thoroughly kissed, Sherlock smiled against John's mouth. "Let's go home."

Their holiday, John ruminated, for the most part was memorable. Stour Provost was a nice little hamlet, but London was preferable. The cottage was more than comfortable, but Baker Street, with Sherlock, was home.

* * *

Halfway to London, Sherlock's phone pinged with an incoming call, but the detective ignored it, and by the time John had wrestled it from the detective's jeans pocket-with suggestive chortling from both sides of the Land Rover-it was too late to catch it.

"Wait," Sherlock said, resting his hand over John's and the phone.

"I can text him back to see what he wants."

"Please wait, John. Don't encourage him by putting yourself under his thumb."

John didn't like to antagonise Mycroft any more than was necessary, but he did as he was asked. Sherlock lifted the hand he held to his lips to kiss the scraped knuckles.

Soon enough John's phone pinged with an incoming text. He held the phone out for Sherlock to read Mycroft's text.

All is well. Baker Street is secure. It was a thoughtful gesture-MH

Sherlock said nothing, as though he intended to ignore it.

"Text him these words exactly-"

"No, Sherlock. I am not going to tell him to bugger off."

"I wasn't going to tell him that. I was going to tell him to f-"

"No, you aren't going to tell him that either."

"But John," Sherlock whinged. "You know I enjoy the simple pleasure of annoying my brother."

"Don't sulk and or pout, Sherlock. It's not a pretty sight."

The detective twisted his gorgeous lips into a grimace, staring straight ahead. He blew a breath out through his nose. John didn't respond, but he barely held back his laughter.

"Let's see now. What should I say?" he mused.

"John, I told you what to say."

"No, Sherlock."

"Oh, go on, live dangerously. Whatever happened to the man addicted to a certain lifestyle?"

"I guess the holiday is over, huh?"

Sherlock ignored him. Well, then, back to normal.

On our way-JW


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

 **Message Received**

 **An Epilogue: Fitting Some Pieces Together**

* * *

Author's Note: Couldn't resist the twist on the ducks. It seemed only fitting even if it came to me on the very last edit.

* * *

In the days subsequent to their return to Baker Street, Sherlock observed an increasingly withdrawn and distracted John Watson. As though they were somehow tethered together, the doctor rarely strayed from his side, appearing agitated if Sherlock was not within sight. In was unsettling and very much not the John he knew.

Frequent nightmares left a shaky sweat-drenched, and fearful John clinging to him. Sherlock's gentle efforts to persuade his doctor to talk about the events in the woods were met with a blank stare and silence. Eventually John would find a way to move past his own reluctance, but for now, Sherlock could only remain alert and ready to offer whatever comfort John needed.

During many interrupted-by-nightmares, middle-of-the-night sojourns into his Mind Palace to piece together the night in question, it became obvious to Sherlock that Mycroft's involvement was more than food deliveries, more than a security detail at the cottage and with them when they ventured out to Dr. Sloane's clinic. The British Government's nose was deeply imbedded, but as much as Sherlock tried to uncover something, anything, in the end Mycroft planted obstacles, inevitably leaving no trail to follow. It was all circumstantial evidence regardless of how well he knew his brother's motives and methods.

Questioning his brother on several later occasions when John was present brought him no closer to the truth. Mycroft wasn't talking, and no amount of coercion moved him. That alone made Sherlock suspicious, annoyed and angry.

Sherlock believed that Jeremy Myers was a covert operative who worked for Mycroft, alone, deep undercover. When Sherlock shared his suspicion with John, the information garnered no response other than a brief frown. His conductor of light was elsewhere, and Sherlock was alone in his quandary.

Just a day later, when Mycroft strolled in unannounced to create havoc, or more likely to interfere, John, in a rare few moments of clarity, expressed his wish to thank Jeremy, asking Mycroft to pass along a message, but his entreaty was met with a constipated smile and a 'look frightened and scuttle' glare.

When John repeated his request, Mycroft stated with his imperious eyebrow quirked upward, "I don't know the person to whom you refer."

Sherlock faced two certainties, one good, one bad. He now knew John, although silent and hurting, was still inside that beautiful mind and body.

The second, not surprisingly, was that his brother was a prick and he lied as easily as he breathed.

With little to go on, Sherlock assigned the situation a red flag, turned it over to his Mind Palace for later consideration, and returned his attention to John, where it needed to be.

* * *

The sudden crumbling of John's defences just a day later took Sherlock by surprise. Ripped from his Mind Palace in the hours just before dawn to find John sitting beside him with his knees hugged to his chest, rocking back and forth, and mumbling nonsensical whispers until at last he unwittingly gave the detective the missing piece to unlock his doctor's despair.

When Sherlock gathered him into his arms, John buried his face into the hollow of the detective's neck, sobbing as though there might not be a tomorrow.

"Jeremy..no..Sherlock...I watched you die. You were dead," John choked out, as his tears soaked through Sherlock's T-shirt to dampen his skin. "You came back...Jeremy didn't come back, I don't know...I don't know anymore."

Stunned, with no words of comfort immediately available, Sherlock tightened his arms, cradling John's head with one gentle hand while failing to stem the flow of his own tears.

"I'm so sorry, John." It was all he had.

If he'd had any doubts regarding how much emotional damage had been done to John as a result of his 'death,' all doubt vanished in that moment. Unlike any time before or since that day that had changed their lives forever, he knew now, with certainty and an unbearable ache in his chest that even though his doctor had forgiven him, John would forever carry the memory as a scar on his heart and psyche.

* * *

As time passed, The Work resumed and once again John, his conductor of light, and the calm to his chaos, was at his side. The cases were small ones to accommodate John's still healing body and his emotional compass, most barely threes or fours, and one, to Sherlock's delight, that began as a four and evolved into a seven.

The latest case was one that seemed silly at the outset: a missing duck. After Sherlock took the case and the little girl and her mother departed, John dissolved into a heap of giggles. So happy to hear John's laughter, Sherlock hugged and kissed John until they were both too weak to get up from the sofa.

A brief phone call an hour later interrupted their brief kip, but Sherlock wouldn't release John when he answered the call.

"Hello, Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock grinned. "Oh, very good. No, no need to compensate for our time. We're happy to listen to our client's concerns." Rolling his eyes, he shook his head at John. "Yes, thank you for your call."

"What was that?" John asked, untangling himself from Sherlock to sit up on the sofa.

"Apparently Benedict has a mate."

"Who?"

"Benedict, the duck. Do keep up, John. Emily's duck came home on his own "

"Oh."

"Yes, he did."

"Good. That's good."

"Yes, John, very good, indeed. They named Benedict's mate Martin. According to Emily, the happy couple is currently residing in the honeymoon pond behind the house."

John's laughter for the second time in one day was infectious. It felt so good to laugh again that neither the detective nor his blogger minded their sore ribs.

Unfortunately, as was so often the case since returning from their holiday, a good day wasn't always a precursor to a good night, and so it happened after a busy, successful day.

At two in the morning, John once again startled awake, calling out to Sherlock in a terrified gasp.

"I'm here, John. It's a dream. You're okay, you're safe," Sherlock told him from the other side of the bed.

"Why are you way over there?"

Sherlock reached a hesitant hand toward John letting it rest on his wrist. "Are you awake?"

"Yes, of course I'm awake...oh."

Sherlock smiled. "Yes, oh, John."

"Sorry."

"No need."

"I'm still sorry."

"Apology accepted, John."

"Thank you."

As he lay back against the pillows, Sherlock drew John into his arms to comfort him. Nearly thirty minutes later, the good doctor shuddered, his muscles tense as he began to speak.

"His fake death, and your death, the similarity of the words spoken here in Mrs. Hudson's hallway and in the woods." John shuddered, his breathing labored as he curled into him. "I have to let it out, Sherlock. I have to tell someone or it will destroy me."

Sherlock absently stroked the hair at John's crown. "I'm your someone, John, tell me."

John hesitated, as though gathering his words before speaking. "When I saw him at the clinic, I dismissed him because in my mind I knew Jeremy was dead and the man sitting there was just someone who resembled him. That he had the same name didn't make an impression on me. I'm not sure why even now." When John cleared his throat, Sherlock recognised it as a John-ism to disguise the catch in his voice.

Alarmed at the rapid speech that was so unlike John, and his heightened stress level, Sherlock held him tighter.

"You're trembling. Not good."

"I have to get it all out, Sherlock. It's making me doubt myself."

"At least slow down a bit."

Inhaling deeply, John continued. "Jeremy was a friend from Afghanistan. All this time I thought he was dead. He was the last person I saw before Bill Murray saved my life. He was wounded, but I couldn't get to him. I went to Jeremy's funeral. I spoke...for him, and all the time he was alive. He was there, somewhere, just like you were at the cemetery, but I had no reason to look for him since I'd been told he was dead. Why would he do that? He was in my dream, Sherlock, he was in my dream, but I substituted your face for his. Everything came back, all the memories and it terrified me all over again."

"Shh, it's all right. I've got you."

"I know I'm blathering. Everything in my head is all muddled, and out of order, but I know one thing for certain. Mycroft had a hand in it, just as he had in your awful scheme. I don't know how or why, but he's involved and from now on he can bugger off."

"I will give him your message."

"I'll tell him myself, Sherlock. He's your brother; I don't have to like him or talk to him, but besides your mum and dad, he's the only family you have."

"He's a rubbish brother, John. I'd rather have you."

John sighed, his body relaxing against Sherlock's. "Thank you."

"For?"

"Listening."

"John, I always listen to you, even when I'm ignoring you."

John's lip turned up at the corner. "Thank you for that."

"Welcome."

John was quiet for a long time. When he nuzzled against his neck, Sherlock held him tighter. "Try to sleep now John. Tomorrow will be time enough to talk again."

"Kay. Night, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."

"Sherlock?"

"I know. I love you, too, John.

* * *

On two separate occasions weeks after their return from holiday, and on days that he was alone, Sherlock spied a man on Baker Street who could only have been Jeremy, whose image from the clinic of Dr. Sloane, the younger, the detective had committed to his memory. The first time he attempted an approach, the man shook his head and hurried away.

The second time Jeremy appeared, Sherlock followed him at a distance only to lose him inside Regent's Park.

Each time Sherlock informed his doctor of his near encounters, John was visibly distressed that he had not accompanied him.

A few days later, as they returned on foot to Baker Street and stood on the pavement across the street from 221B chatting about nothing in particular, Sherlock observed John searching the street with an intense concentration. His shoulders sagged in disappointment when there was no sign of Jeremy.

Another week passed by without a Jeremy sighting. Over the course of a few more days, Sherlock observed that John no longer searched every face in the crowds of people they encountered. The good doctor wore a world-weariness on his shoulders, more than was usual for him, and the cast of his blue eyes was one of loss when he thought he wasn't being watched.

It was shortly after John had made his peace with never seeing his old friend again that Jeremy appeared for the third, and final time, although they didn't know it then, on the street just moments after they returned from a meeting with Lestrade at NSY.

Sherlock noticed him first, lowered his head to alert John, at the same time holding John in place with a hand on his arm.

"John, to your left, across the street, in the doorway."

From a short distance away, Jeremy simply nodded his head. As Sherlock watched the interaction, John nodded in return, but Jeremy didn't walk away. Soldier straight, raising his hand to his forehead, Jeremy snapped a salute. John pulled in a startled breath before returning the salute.

"Jeremy," John whispered, his eyes filling. "Jeremy."

"John?"

"He's really alive. Just like you."

Still staring in Jeremy's direction, John placed his hand over his heart as his tears overflowed. "Fuck Mycroft all to hell," John said, raising a hand to say goodbye.

Sherlock circled an arm around John's shoulders, hugging him close against his side as a message to the man who had saved John's life out there in the woods, and that he, Sherlock, would protect John with his own.

When Jeremy raised a thumbs up, Sherlock knew his message was received. He gazed at John for a moment; when he looked back, Jeremy was gone. "Let's go home, John," Sherlock said, resting an arm around John's shoulders.


	18. Chapter 18

" **Final Note"**

* * *

I know I'm dating myself, but such is life. I love

gentle music that speaks to my heart. One day, when I was

travelling in my car and listening to an oldies station on the radio, a song came on that fit this story so well that I include the lyrics here. I am an unabashed John Denver fan and after nearly 20 years, whenever I hear his voice, I miss him all over again.

I dedicate the following song to John and Sherlock, who will forever remain in my heart.

Follow Me by John Denver

 **It's by far the hardest thing I've ever done, to be so in love with you and so alone.**

Follow me where I go, what I do and who I know, make it part of you to be a part of me.

Follow me up and down, all the way and all around, take my hand and say you'll follow me.

It's long been on my mind, you know, it's been a long, long time.

I'll try to find the way that I can make you understand

the way I feel about you and just **how much I need you**

 **to be there where I can talk to you when there's no one else around.**

Follow me where I go, what I do and who I know, make it part of you to be a part of me.

 **Follow me up and down, all the way and all around, take my hand and** **say you'll follow me***

You see, I'd like to share my life with you and show you things I've seen,

places that I'm going to and places where I've been.

 **To have you there beside me and never be alone,**

 **and all the time that you're with me, then** **we will be at home.**

Follow me where I go, what I do and who I know, make it part of you to be a part of me.

Follow me up and down, all the way and all around, **take my hand and I will follow you.***

*Note that at first it was "say you'll follow me" and then it was "I will follow you." The highlighted lines are ones I feel embody how our boys feel about each other.

* * *

And this one...

Perhaps Love by John Denver

Perhaps love is like a resting place, a shelter from the storm

It exists to give you comfort, it is there to keep you warm

And in those times of trouble when you are most alone

The memory of love will bring you home

Perhaps love is like a window, perhaps an open door

It invites you to come closer, it wants to show you more

And even if you lose yourself and don't know what to do

The memory of love will see you through

Oh love to some is like a cloud, to some as strong as steel

For some a way of living, for some a way to feel

And some say love is holding on and some say letting go

And some say love is everything and some say they don't know

Perhaps love is like the ocean, full of conflict, full of pain

Like a fire when it's cold outside or thunder when it rains

If I should live forever and all my dreams come true, my memories will be of you

* * *

And so,

My apologies to the author of a meta I read sometime ago, and whose name I've misplaced. One of her many pet peeves with Sherlock fandom writers is that the fireplace at 221B is gas-fueled, not wood-fired and there are no tools on the hearth. I've searched early pictures of the sitting room, and there is/was a set of fireplace tools. Further, in the scene in which Magnussen pees in the grate, there is very clear evidence of firewood. So, that is why I chose the wood burning fireplace in this and every other story I've written.

Besides, in my world, it's cozier and better suited to our boys.

Thank you to everyone who read and commented on this story. I am grateful for your interest in this my first and last multiple chapter story. After the holidays, it's back to the little stories, where my heart and soul feel most at home.

Gameson221b here

AlwaysJohn on AO3


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